


Their Shallow Graves

by mackillian



Series: Heed Our Words [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent (Chapter 51 only), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 76
Words: 498,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackillian/pseuds/mackillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, sequel to 30 Dragon and In Peace We Lie. In the wake of Morrigan's departure, change starts to kindle across Thedas. While Morrigan takes the path leading to her future, those left behind find themselves facing a past thought dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. ****

In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

— _Canticle of Benedictions 4:11_

**Leliana**

**9:30 Dragon**

_The fire is lit. Bank the embers. Bury the ashes._

The message needed no signature. A signature left upon it would be folly, much the same as not obeying its contents. The bit of folded paper sealed with unmarked wax had been slipped into her coinpurse when she had visited the chantry in Redcliffe. And now, Leliana held it in her hand as she stood watch just beyond the light of the fire. 

The fires of the few hundred warriors and soldiers were strewn behind their camp, the forces Alistair had gathered on their way to Honnleath. They had stopped for a few hours around midnight to rest the horses. The rest was also necessary for Alistair and what had become his vanguard, but he would never admit that, even when he fell asleep almost immediately upon hitting his bedroll. Leliana had volunteered to keep watch since she seemed to be the only one not asleep on her feet. No one had the energy to object, and so she found herself alone in wakefulness, surrounded by the deep breathing and snores of the people who had been her companions for months.

She was just as exhausted as they were. Yet the message had left her too keyed up for sleep. During the day, she blamed her anxiety on the pending battle—it would be their first large, protracted battle against hundreds, perhaps even a thousand darkspawn. She said nothing to the others, keeping the half-truth close in case one of the more observant of her companions questioned her slightly changed demeanor. Alistair was too distracted by strategy planning to notice, but Zevran was certainly observant enough, as were Líadan and Morrigan.

Leliana read the message one last time, as if to convince herself that the instructions were indeed what they were, and then dropped it into the fire.

“What is it that you burn, I wonder?” came Morrigan’s voice from somewhere near the trees.

Leliana turned.

Shadows swam and seemed to part, and then Morrigan stepped out of the forest, as if she had been part of it until she chose to reveal herself. Which, considering Morrigan’s inherent touch of the wildness of nature about her, wasn’t far from the truth. “Orders from your handlers, perhaps?”

“Merely a note.” A note, yes, but the changes to be enacted within had nothing insignificant about them.

“And yet the reading of it leaves such distress in your eyes.” Morrigan stopped her approach just short of the bright light of the fire. “One could only imagine you have received notice that it is time for you to go. That now you must leave the would-be king whom you bedded on orders from your superiors.” She paused for a moment, her long fingers drumming on the stave she loosely held, as if teasing out an answer to a peculiar problem. “Which should not be hard for one trained such as you are. Except that you have encountered an unexpected difficulty. Let me guess: you, the bard, have allowed yourself to fall in love.”

The witch was getting far closer to the truth than Leliana could ever have thought. Had she been spying on them? How else could she know things that Leliana hadn’t even admitted to herself? Morrigan was far too confident. She had to be thrown off-balance. “Funny that you should speak of love. It’s such a wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed, but she betrayed nothing else, even her posture remaining the same. “What you call ‘love’ is nothing more than wishful fancy. Pity that it has preyed upon you as it has. It makes your task all the more difficult, does it not?”

“You don’t fool me, you know.”

“‘Tis not my intention to fool anyone. That is your purpose, not mine.”

Leliana had to admit that Morrigan was better at this than she’d anticipated. Her ability to twist words rivaled that of any bard. She realized that speaking to Morrigan of love would not leave her the victor, not tonight. “The Maker has given all of us a purpose, Morrigan.”

“And what is the purpose He has given you through your Chantry? Were you to control the would-be king? Were you sent to merely gather information? Or are you an assassin, sent to make sure Ferelden falls to the Blight?” Magic came alive in one of Morrigan’s hands, purple tendrils snapping about her fingers. “Choose wisely, bard.”

She wondered what it was that compelled Morrigan to protect it with such ferocity. Was it the denied love for Malcolm? Or was it to do with Alistair and the survival of Ferelden, after all? Perhaps something Flemeth had planned required Ferelden to remain intact, which meant protecting Alistair. 

Alistair.

The magic should have woken him, templar that he was, but no movement sounded from inside his tent. Leliana glanced back, but the silence remained. 

“Your templar king cannot save you,” said Morrigan.

Leliana spun around, a glare darkening her fair features. “What have you done to him?”

“I? Nothing. Even templars occasionally succumb to exhaustion.” A knowing smile spread across her lips. “It is such as I thought, then. You truly fell in love with him. A mistake, I assume. Was it worth it?”

“Yes.”

Morrigan arched an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “Truly? ‘Tis worth that much?”

“It is worth everything. You should know. You are experiencing it yourself.”

“I do not allow myself to pursue a wishful fancy, even though you pursued yours to your own folly. So tell me, what is it you were sent to do? Do not assume I have forgotten that you have yet to answer my question.” Her magic leapt from her hand to envelop her stave. “Neglecting to answer will be treated the same as choosing the wrong answer. Your purpose must not be allowed to override mine.”

So it wasn’t about protecting Malcolm, after all. Finding out Morrigan’s motives would be an incredible piece of intelligence, should Leliana’s plans not end with her death. Certainly more important than keeping the secret of her own purpose here from Morrigan. “I was sent to make sure Ferelden did not fall to the Blight.”

“Were you? Are you secretly a Grey Warden? For they are the ones who stop Blights, not dutiful minions of the Chantry.” The magic did not disappear, but the stave remained pointed upward, and not toward Leliana.

“No. I was to guide Alistair and make sure he united the Bannorn, which he has. The time has come for me to move on.”

If the revelation surprised Morrigan, she did not show it. Yet, her magic dissipated into the night, leaving a smoothed walking stick in place of an oaken staff crackling with energy. “Will you leave us tonight, then?”

“No. Not so suddenly. It wouldn’t work that way.”

“Your templar would come after you.”

“Yes. That is his way. He loves completely, with everything that he has and is. He would not rest until he found me.”

Morrigan’s gaze flicked over to Alistair’s tent, which remained quiet. “It would ruin all you have done. You could not have that. Your Maker would not stand for it.” Morrigan studied Leliana for a moment, taking measure. “You will have to die.”

Leliana bit her lip, her eyes sliding over to the tent where Alistair slept unaware. “Yes.”

“Have you a plan?”

 _The message itself was the plan. Bare instructions for taking apart what she and Alistair had built between them. What they did not include was how much it would hurt._ “Of course.”

Morrigan nodded, more to herself than Leliana. “I shall not hinder you.”

“What—why not?”

“Your purpose does not interfere with mine. Therefore, I see no reason to intervene. Do as you must, I care not.” Morrigan turned to walk back into the forest.

She couldn’t let her have the last word, not with the air of superiority that practically wafted around her. “You lie, Morrigan,” Leliana said, pointing her finger at the witch’s back. “You do care. And what you insist is wishful fancy? Somewhere deep inside that blackened heart of yours, you are glad that you are experiencing love.”

Morrigan froze, her back impossibly straight, before slowly turning around. Leliana wondered just what nerve she had touched, because Morrigan’s eyes had filled with a cold fury. “Let me tell you one thing, and then let us speak of it no more. Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death. The love you dream of is something that would be more important to one than anything, even life. I know no such love.”

When Leliana opened her mouth to answer, Morrigan did not let her talk, holding up a hand surrounded by a faint purple glow.

“What I know is passion. The respect of equals. Things far more valuable that you cannot even comprehend.”

The magic did not scare Leliana, because she knew Morrigan could not use it. Not without waking the trained templar, for summoning magic was one thing, using it another. An offensive spell would bring both Alistair and Malcolm out of their deep slumber. “What you know is a lie you tell yourself every moment of every day. It will catch up to you, Morrigan—and it will send you reeling.”

“Lies such as the ones you used to insinuate yourself in the future king’s bed? Lies you will tell to cover your disappearance? The tangle of lies you’ll leave behind for Alistair to sort through for the tiniest grain of truth?”

“I may lie to others, but I do not lie to myself. Better that than someone who’s never loved anyone or anything, least of all herself.”

Morrigan did not so much as blink. “Believe what you must. Do what you must. I have nothing more to say to you.” With that, she stalked back into the trees, her tense muscles revealing just how close Leliana had cut her.

Leliana watched her go, wondering if Morrigan would keep her secret, or would betray her. There was no telling, and there was nothing Leliana could do to stop it. What she could do was complete her assignment and move on to the next. She had the potion to keep her body in stasis and a potion to induce fever. She had the vial with a single drop of archdemon’s blood that she had taken from the Grey Warden safe in Denerim when the others had been distracted, stored in a special box she’d found in Duncan’s desk. The box hid the taint from the Wardens until it was unsealed. The agents in the Redcliffe chantry were prepared to accept what would look like her shrouded dead body. All she needed now was opportunity, but that would depend on where she was assigned during battle. For now, all she had was waiting. All she had was a love she desperately wanted to hold onto and carry for as long as possible, but she would have to toss away instead. Alistair was a good man, and he would be a good king. She took solace in that.

She sighed quietly, and then slipped into Alistair’s tent. While she knew this love would be fleeting, she would revel in it as much as she could before it was over.

The end came sooner than she expected.

Honnleath had been lost before the small army even arrived, but they fought the remaining darkspawn and prevailed. Leliana was separated from the other archers when a party of darkspawn pressed a sudden advantage and overrode their position. A genlock ducked past a swipe of her bow, and then bit down hard on her gauntlet. She lashed out with her booted foot, sending the darkspawn to the ground before plunging a dagger into its chest. The rest of her company of archers had taken care of the other darkspawn, and as she glanced up and at the field of battle, she found it largely empty of fighting parties. Instead, the human and elven warriors were walking through the fallen darkspawn bodies, making sure each of them were dead. Another group, following the first, searched for human and elven survivors. The Wardens had gone into the village proper to find survivors there—though Leliana knew full well that anyone they found, they would kill. It’s what the Wardens had to do with people who were tainted, without question.

It was a practice she would be counting on.

She took off her gauntlet and inspected the area the genlock had bitten. Livid bruises already colored her skin, mottled a dark purple and blue. The skin hadn’t broken, but she could fix that to look as if it had, even to a healer. From there, coupled with a potion that could make a person’s skin appear corrupted—it was astonishing what one could find at the Wonders of Thedas—she was fairly certain she could create the illusion that she had been tainted. Both the fever inducing potion and the corruption potion were slow acting, so they would mimic the onset of the blight sickness. After arranging the final details in her head, she put the gauntlet back on and went to help at the makeshift field hospital. There was good she could still do.

When Líadan returned from the village leading actual, untainted survivors, Leliana felt hope for the first time in months. Then she remembered what she had to do, how she would seem another casualty soon enough, and the hope kindling in her chest turned to cold cinders. 

On the march away from the burning battlefield, Leliana took both the skin and fever potions, anticipating their coming into full force later that evening. Once in the camp, she wandered into nearby trees, claiming need for use of a privy. There, she grimaced as she opened the skin around the bruises and unbroken indentations left by the genlock’s bite. It was some of her finest work, and yet she could not bring herself to admire it, not even a little. It filled her with shame and sadness, even as hope spread through the soldiers and warriors in the army’s camp. Then she took the stasis potion, which wouldn’t kick in until she was killed—it would stop a mortal wound from reaching that mortal point. However, it would only hold the grave injury for a few days. Any more than that, and she would die in truth, for the cause of the Maker.

Then she took the vial with the drop of archdemon blood out of its sealed box—the Wardens’ security was not a challenge for the most determined and skillful of snoops—and tucked it into a hidden pocket. She went and sat by the fire, barely needing to act with the strength of the fever that suddenly struck her. Now she would wait for the Wardens to sense the taint and seek out its source.

And then kill it. It was their duty. Their sacrifice, and she would make them suffer another, make another dark stain on their souls. 

When she saw Alistair stroll back into their camp with his brother, face alight with warmth and optimism, within her, hope fled in the face of her grief. Just as he would eventually end her life this night, she would end the hope he had just started to allow himself to feel. 

When Alistair saw her, he grinned and walked straight for her. As he got closer, the optimism faded from his eyes, quickly replaced with concern. His food was set aside and forgotten as he reached out to her, cupped her chin, and asked her what was wrong.

She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she was a bard in employment of a single member of the Chantry, a woman who would eventually bring about momentous, needed, and good change in Andraste’s legacy. Since he’d not asked about feeling the taint, she did wonder if the drop she’d obtained wasn’t strong enough. So she asked, “Can’t you feel it?” The tears that threatened were no act. She hated this. But she would do it because she served a greater purpose.

A half-smile turned up a corner of Alistair’s mouth. “Can’t you? Everyone here, Leliana, they’re filled with hope. It’s a pestilence all over the camp, and it’s wonderful.”

He was killing her already, waving the hope she could not have in front of her face, holding onto hope in his own heart, hope that she would soon rip to shreds. “No,” she said, the word coming out in a whisper as her voice began to fail her. Imagine, a bard’s voice failing, that was how far she’d fallen in love with him. Had it gone on much longer, even her convictions to the Maker may not have withstood its power. 

At Alistair’s puzzled look, she reached down and removed her gauntlet. Then she thrust it into the light cast by the fire.

He stared.

“It was a genlock,” she said, truth within a lie.

Alistair grabbed her arm, turning it over, searching for a different answer other than the one presented. Panic widened his eyes; he had felt the taint. The corruption potion had begun to work, and dark tendrils wormed their way through her skin, working in tandem with the drop of archdemon blood. “It hasn’t been long,” he said, looking around the camp for something, anything to fix it. He began to babble something about Wynne, something about Marethari, yet even as he came up with solutions, he threw them out. Everything was not enough or too far away.

Leliana had planned it this way. She gently took her arm out of his hands, wishing she could take his guilt along with it. “It’s okay.” 

“No, it is not.” His jaw set in determination, the same as it did before he became truly angry. “Not by any means.”

She explained to him that she’d known it could happen—another partial truth—and that she had accepted the possibility when she rejected becoming a Warden. “If the Maker wills it, then the Maker wills it,” she told him, that statement entirely true.

His anger mixed with fear. “The Maker doesn’t will this.”

Leliana winced. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” _For you have no idea how difficult it is not to stop this entire charade and ignore the Maker’s will._

He repeated her request, and she asked him to accept what would happen, even as the fever began to burn white-hot under her skin. 

Alistair closed his eyes.

Behind him, Malcolm came into view, his face at once confused and determined. “Alistair, there might be a problem somewhere in camp. I can sense...” he trailed off as his gaze settled on Leliana, and he pinpointed the source of the taint. “Oh, no.”

She tried to smile, but knew she failed. “It’s okay.”

Malcolm didn’t believe her either. He went through the same list of ideas as Alistair had, with Alistair explaining in turn how each idea would not work. That they had time to do very little. She had hours, possibly minutes.

The fever’s strength sapped hers, and her legs gave out when she went to wipe the sweat from her brow. Alistair caught her before she hit the ground, gently lowering her instead. This would be the last time that he would hold her. This would be the last time that he would love her. 

She grieved. She grieved for what would be lost.

Wynne’s magic barely touched the potion-induced fever. The other Wardens commented on the taint, discussed the situation. Even Morrigan, who knew what was really going on, participated in the conversation, telling nothing of the truth she knew.

Leliana winced again as the fever wracked her body, causing her muscles to spasm and stiffen. “Help me,” she said, unwilling to endure this grief any longer, this farce any longer, this pain any longer. It amazed her how many truths she spoke when she had expected to tell only lies.

A dagger glinted in the firelight, pressed into Alistair’s hand.

“Please.” Between the corruption in her skin and the fever, her voice strained to reach even a whisper.

Farewells were made.

Then it was just Alistair, the fundamentally good man who would be a good king, the man upon whose soul she would now leave a scar. It couldn’t be helped. The Maker had willed it.

She hoped one day that Alistair might understand. That he would understand one very certain truth she had to tell him. “I love you,” she whispered.

He told her the same, kissed her, and drove the dagger into her heart.

What Leliana had not expected was how much it would _hurt_. The stasis potion did not work right away, and she felt every torn muscle and ligament, felt her heart pierced, felt the grief build. Then everything went dark, and she felt nothing more.

Light, bright and painful, pried at her eyes. 

“Sister Leliana? Can you hear me?” asked Mother Hannah.

“Yes,” said Leliana, her voice no more than a croak, the ugliest she’d ever heard it.

It matched the ugliness she felt in her soul. Following the Maker’s will had yet to cleanse it. She wondered how long it would be, or if she would always carry this ugliness within her, a scar of her own to match the one she’d given Alistair.

“Good,” said Mother Hannah. “Can you open your eyes?”

Leliana tried, but her eyelids refused. “Too bright.”

Fabric rustled, most likely Mother Hannah motioning for oil lamps to be turned down. “Try now.”

Her eyes slowly obeyed her command to open, her vision clouded at first until it cleared the dryness of potion-induced sleep. “How close was it?” she asked once she could fully make out the Revered Mother’s face.

“Closer than I or Dorothea would have liked. That was very nearly your body on that bier they’ll burn tonight.”

“Would that it were,” Leliana said out loud, her eyes fluttering shut against what she had spoken.

Mother Hannah placed a kind, warm hand over hers. “You did the right thing. You did the Maker’s will.”

She opened her eyes again, waiting to feel the sureness of her decision, sureness sent by the Maker in following Him, but she was left wanting. “Maker’s will or not, it doesn’t feel right.”

“The revelation will come, in time. The Maker moves at His own pace, in His own mysterious ways. Perhaps I will use that in my eulogy.”

 _Platitudes_ , Leliana thought. Funny how she didn’t hear them before. And yet when the resolution of the Maker’s will returned to her, they would once more be truths instead of platitudes. For now, however, she had no wish to hear any. “They are having a funeral?”

“You were more beloved than you thought.”

 _And more than I wanted._ “By whom? My former companions or the Maker?”

Mother Hannah gave Leliana’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Both, my dear.”

Her mannerisms and gentleness reminded her of Wynne.

It wasn’t a reminder she wanted. Wynne would hate her now, for what she’d done to Alistair. To her, Alistair was very much like the son she was never allowed to raise, and she was protective of him. To Wynne, this would very much be a betrayal, were she ever to learn the truth. It would be the same to all of them, except perhaps Morrigan. But Morrigan was too busy betraying herself to get worked up over someone else’s betrayal.

“Everything is prepared for your departure,” Mother Hannah said after some time. “You may rest here overnight, or you may go. Dorothea is expecting you within the week. She must move quickly to bring the rest of her plans into line if she is to become Divine in the coming years, and so it is my understanding that you will infiltrate the Seekers next.”

“Yes. Good.” Leliana stole a look over at the hidden doorway set into the wall that led out to a passage, which in turn led out into a copse of trees behind the chantry. “What time of day is it?”

“Evening falls, Sister.”

“I would like to watch. To witness.”

“That cannot be a good—”

Leliana stood, wobbly at first, and then with strength. “It is the least I can do to atone to them for what I have done.” She gave Mother Hannah a small, confident smile. “Fear not. I will not be seen, for they expect me to be somewhere else.” The sleight of hand and the expectation, coupled with her skill, would keep her hidden from view.

Mother Hannah dropped her argument with a nod. “As you will. The ceremony will begin in two candle marks. I will be speaking and I have much to say.”

The shadows of the windmill’s roof held enough darkness for Leliana to blend in while being able to see everything. The acoustics of the cliffs allowed the sound from the singer to carry up to her ears. The fire-tipped arrow sailed through the night and struck true. Leliana watched the boat burn, the flames consuming her lies until they were nothing but ashes of a life she could not have.

It was not the Maker’s will.


	2. Chapter 2

“In all my studies, I must say that the most intriguing was my interview with the desire demon. That the creature was willing to speak with me was a sign that this was no mere monster, mindlessly driven by its nature, but rather a rational being as interested in me as I was in it. It took a form that I would call female, though I had no doubt that it could appear otherwise. I wondered if it appeared as it did because I wanted it to or because I expected it to. She... and, indeed, I could only think of her as such now... smiled warmly at me and laughed a musical sound that seemed to thrill my old heart.

So frightened was I of this creature’s legendary abilities to twist the hearts of men, and so relieved was I when I looked across the table into her dark eyes. This was a fearsome creature of the Fade, but as I spoke with her I slowly came to realize that this demon was merely as misunderstood as we mages are, ourselves.”

—from the journal of former Senior Enchanter Maleus, once of the Circle of Rivain, declared apostate in 9:20 Dragon

**Anders**

**9:32 Dragon**

His eyes flicked open immediately, leaving sleep behind as easily as one would drop a cloak from their shoulders. Something—he was fairly certain it wasn’t a some _one_ —had woken him up. A voice from nowhere in the middle of the night, and summons such as those couldn’t be ignored. Mostly, because _not_ knowing what it was would kill him. So he went to answer it.

**_Anders._ **

Once he’d assured himself that all was still in the Warden camp, Anders stole away and up the slope of Sundermount. He couldn’t fathom why, because he knew better. As he walked up the trail, he mulled over the possible reasons, even as he skirted areas where the Veil was so thin that he could practically see the demons and spirits wandering in the Fade. Focus had to be his main objective as he hiked, or else he’d be left returning to the Warden camp possessed by a demon. That would be terribly awkward. Also deadly.

**_Mage._ **

His breath formed a cloud in front of his face in the cool night air. Before him was the entrance to the cavern they’d entered and then exited as quickly as humanly possible only a couple days ago, and yet he’d returned. 

**_Help me._ **

As a healer, and a talented one at that, he had a hard time ignoring pleas for help. He stepped into the tunnel bored into the stone of Sundermount, walking past the carcass of the giant spider, and into the cavern with walls lined with human skulls. He came to a stop in front of the statue, both reluctantly and willingly, staring at its strange red eyes. Earlier, he’d assumed they were inset gems of some kind, perhaps garnets. Yet, given closer study, he didn’t think they were gems. Or stone. Or anything from the realm of mortals. 

**_Help me, healer._ **

Oh, now the voice was playing dirty. Anders shivered, and it wasn’t because of the damp air of the cave. Remembering what had happened with Líadan earlier, he didn’t dare touch the statue. His own connection to the Fade was far, far stronger than hers, and there was no telling what the demon could do with him once it had a physical connection. But was it really a demon as he had so decisively declared the last time? This one, this voice, sounded different, somehow. Not as... what? Menacing? Perhaps. But demons were particularly good at sounding like you’d want them to, or else they wouldn’t be very enticing, leading to no one being possessed ever.

“Who are you?” he asked, echoing Líadan’s question from their first encounter with the statue and its demon.

The answer came in a confident, clipped manner.

**_I have no name, only a virtue to which I aspire._ **

Well, that was not the answer he expected, and certainly not the same answer given the other day. And what kind of demon aspired to a virtue? Not a very _good_ demon. Well, good at being a demon. If a demon was good, it very much negated it being a demon. “What virtue?”

**_I am a spirit of Justice._ **

If there really was a spirit trapped in the statue with at least one demon that he’d heard, he had to know. And the only way to get clarification was a better connection. Worth the risk. His seeking fingers brushed against the statue. Emotions pummeled him at once from the demons within and nearly overwhelmed his own: loneliness, rage, lust, jealousy, hunger, all clamoring to be freed. Yet mired within the demons and their cravings was something different.

As a spirit healer, one of only three that he knew existed, he was well familiar with how to tell a spirit from a demon, when it could even be done—sadly, it was not always the case. The voice conversing with him now was likely no demon. Curiosity piqued, his fingers remained on the statue. He remembered what the demon had said before, something about being bound. “How did a spirit of Justice come to be trapped with a pack of demons? It isn’t like you’d have been hanging around for their pleasant company.”

**_There was a vicious battle here, long ago. The aggressors unjustly persecuted their enemies, attempting to wipe them from existence for merely existing._ **

“You’re talking about the war between ancient Tevinter and the elves of Arlathan?”

**_I know not their names. I had watched for too long, seething at the atrocities committed on those souls. When both sides summoned and unleashed demons upon the other, I sought to intervene._ **

Considering how history recorded almost no survivors from the ancient battle—Tevinter had only won by the barest of margins due to the demons and other horrors massacring them all—Anders couldn’t figure the end result staring him in the face with creepy red eyes. “You were a little too late, I take it?”

**_Yes._ **

Anders waited for further explanation, but none came. He assumed that the spirit would go straight into an explanation of how he came to be trapped, but apparently this spirit wasn’t feeling forthcoming on the matter. “What happened?”

**_Mages came and bound every Fade being they could to this statue. My pleas of innocence were ignored. I was unjustly bound with the others, bound by the very people I had sought to stop._ **

“That must’ve been galling.”

**_Yes. Justice was forestalled in that instance. I have been stopped for a very long time._ **

“I’ll say. It’s been hundreds of years since that battle. And I can’t imagine the demons trapped with you have been very nice.”

**_No. It is not in their nature, and theirs is a nature I do not understand._ **

“Mages have sought to understand demons for a long time, if only to figure out how to stop demons from seeking us out.” He paused, realizing this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to find out the why of spirits seeking to possess the living. “What makes you do that?”

Through the connection, Anders immediately felt the indignation.

**_You speak of demons. I am not a demon._ **

That Anders knew of. One could never be entirely sure, not even a spirit healer. He wasn’t even sure there was a vast difference between spirits and demons. Some wanted to experience the mortal realm, while others couldn’t be bothered with mortals. “Aren’t demons simply spirits with unique and sparkling personalities?” This Justice definitely didn’t possess one of _those_.

**_They have been perverted by their desires._ **

“But what do they want from mages?”

**_To be unbound._ **

“All demons, or just the ones trapped with you?”

**_I do not know of all demons, only the demons here. I have spent too much time amongst them. I reek of their taint._ **

A pause, and then: **_I must be unbound._**

And there it was. Right on the heels of explaining the motives of the demons immediately present, this supposed spirit requested the same thing of him: freedom. “Your desire is the same as theirs. From your words, you either are or could become a demon yourself.”

**_I said no such thing._ **

“You said that demons were spirits perverted by their desires. The demons you’re with, they desire to be unbound. And so do you.”

**_I have no such desire. Justice is not a desire. Justice is an aspiration. Justice is necessary. Justice is purpose. Justice is virtue. Justice is no demon._ **

Anders had to admit the spirit had a pretty good point. A virtue couldn’t really be a demon and still be a virtue, still _feel_ like a virtue. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to suggest you were a demon, or that you could become one.”

**_I should certainly hope not._ **

“I just wondered what relation there is between spirits and demons, and I figured now was a good time to ask. Demons are a worry to any mage, and there are plenty nearby who would be none the happier taking up residence in my body.”

**_I do not know what makes demons as they are. Such evil angers me, but I do not understand it._ **

With Justice’s answer, Anders felt the accompanying flare of outrage at the behavior of demons. Well, that was proof enough for him. “If you were released, what would you do?”

**_Serve justice, as I always have._ **

“How can I unbind you without releasing every demon trapped with you?I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

**_I do not know. I thought a strong mage would know such things._ **

Anders scratched his chin with his free hand, going over all he had learned from Wynne about spirits, and how, as a spirit healer, he interacted with them. Then he remembered Wynne’s special situation and could think of no other solution. He offered the proposal almost hesitantly. “What... what if you found a living body to possess?”

**_Even if I knew how, I would not possess the living. Such is an act for demons._ **

If Justice was a demon, Anders was certain it would have to be the most sly demon to have ever existed. “What if the person were willing?”

**_You speak of yourself?_ **

“I don’t see anyone else volunteering. Or anyone else around, for that matter.”

**_Why would a mortal ever allow such a thing?_ **

“For life,” Anders said, thinking of Wynne again. “Perhaps together, you can do what one being cannot do alone. If you gave instead of taking, I don’t think you would be considered a demon.” He hoped, anyway. This Justice was far stronger and more vocal than the quiet spirit that helped Wynne continue to live. 

**_It is something to consider._ **

“If you truly wish to be unbound, it isn’t something you can ponder forever. I need to leave soon, and I doubt I will be able to return.” He had to get back to the campsite before dawn. Far less questions if no one saw him return and they assumed he’d never left the camp in the first place. Anders figured he could summon Justice as he would a spirit for healing. No demon could respond to that call. It had to be safe to take in Justice. After all, it was _Justice._ It wasn’t like unleashing Justice upon Thedas could be a bad thing. And he never liked the idea of being trapped somewhere, of anyone undeserving to be trapped somewhere. It reminded him of the Circle, and all people should be free of the Circle. A thought, an inkling of a plan began to form in his head of all the things he could accomplish bolstered by the might of the spirit of Justice. Freedom for all mages. No more Circles. No more Towers. No more Chantry overseers. Complete freedom. He would finish his work with the Wardens, and then set out on his own. With Justice. He took a deep breath, and then slowly released it. “It’s now or never, spirit. As long as you don’t submerge my consciousness below yours so that I no longer exist, I offer you your freedom through me.”

**_I agree to your terms._ **

The urgency of time pressing upon him, Anders performed the actions and intoned the spell he used nearly every day in his job as a Grey Warden and healer. Then he changed it. Instead of summoning a healing spirit from the Fade to the mortal realm, Anders summoned the spirit of Justice from the place of its binding, and into a new vessel.

The world reeled and tilted, and the ground rushed up to meet him as he collapsed.

When he came to, he had a hard time remembering who he was, much less where he was. 

Memory slowly returned, of a journey up a mountain, of a statue with red eyes, of a long talk with a spirit, of an offer he never fathomed he would make. His head throbbed with pain, and without thought, he brushed it away. Even as he used healing magic so long practiced that it was instinctual to him, he struggled to remember his name. Then it came to him: _I am Anders._

Then another voice from within him gave its own answer: **_I am Justice._**

Both came from him, yet both voices were distinct. He was himself, even though his body now carried the entirety of another. At least it wasn’t very hard to tell himself from the spirit. Perhaps there was a whispering at the back of his mind, a notion of righteousness and justice that hadn’t been there before, attaching itself to the seed of a plan Anders had thought of before he’d extended his offer to the spirit. But there wasn’t anything present in his mind that wasn’t overwhelmed by everything that was distinctly _him_. For now.

Anders scrambled to his feet and exited the cavern without looking back at the statue. He’d made his choice. There was no turning back, either metaphorically or physically. Outside, he noticed that night wasn’t as dark as it’d been when he’d left it. He’d been in the cavern far longer than he’d intended, and now he would have to hurry if he wanted to get back into camp unnoticed. He picked his way down Sundermount, his eyes staying on the trail under his feet lest he stumble over a stray rock or root. As the sky lightened into dawn, the black turning to grey, and the grey turning into various pastels, Anders paid no mind. At least, he paid no mind until he felt amazement and wonder tumble through him at seeing the dawn of a new day.

**_A world so full of beauty that beauty goes overlooked._ **

Anders wanted to pretend that the profound statement had been his own thought, because it would be easier that way. Easier to pretend that he hadn’t technically taken the first step toward becoming an abomination if Justice turned out to be a very crafty demon.

**_I am no demon._ **

Right, then. Anders pretended he hadn’t heard that, either. 

In the half-light before sunrise, he saw the camp from the end of the trail, and relieved to see that no one had yet stirred. Then a tent flap opened and Malcolm stepped out, the younger Warden giving Anders a curious look. “You were on Sundermount?”

Anders flashed him a grin. “Went to see the sunrise. You should try it sometime.”

Malcolm scowled. “I’d rather sleep. I’ve seen enough sunrises coming from the other side, so I don’t need to sacrifice sleep to see another.”

“Suit yourself.” He smiled again before ducking into his tent. Once inside, he slowly let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he’d stood in front of the statue. He didn’t feel different. Not yet.

At first, it was easy. Anders primarily pretended that Justice wasn’t really there, that the spirit was like any other healing spirit, or that he was even just a figure of his overactive imagination. As the days passed in the group’s journey north, Anders became more at ease with his companion, and eventually became comfortable enough to converse with him inside his head. Justice also seemed to become more relaxed, enough so that he’d comment on the goings-on. When they entered Tantervale, Justice’s outrage spiked before he spoke. 

**_The distribution of wealth in this city is appalling in its lack of equality. The squalor in which the peasants live is unacceptable._ **

Anders, used to the class stratification in Thedas, had no compulsion to address the issue. So, he changed the subject, making sure to ask the question inside of his head instead of out loud: _Were you always like this? Born as Justice? Or were you like every other newborn spirit and grew up to be Justice?_

**_I was not born. I simply am._ **

_You know, the same is true for mages._

**_Does your magic define your being as justice defines mine?_ **

_It does to the Chantry._

**_I would like to know more about this Chantry._ **

_No, you wouldn’t._

The subject would have been dropped entirely had Anders not gotten distracted and forgotten about Justice’s tenacity. Not even an hour later, the group passed by a chantry, complete with the requisite statue of Andraste outside. Still not remembering about his companion’s curiosity—and his desire to seek out injustice—Anders idly asked Malcolm, “What would Andraste have thought about the Harrowing? Forcing mages to fight demons or be made Tranquil?”

“Oh! I see something in that alley!” Sigrun said, and pointed. “Be right back.”

Líadan grumbled about barbaric shemlen customs, and then went after Sigrun. 

Malcolm watched them go before turning to Anders and shrugging. “She’d probably be pretty pissed is my guess. Trading slavery for more slavery seems like a zero sum game, and a waste of a martyrdom. Not much use in taking a path to the Maker through death for things to end up very much the same as before.”

“I don’t see why the Chantry had to go make everything so rigid. Just one way to follow the Maker, and that’s it. No freedom. Look at history, and it seems to me that Andraste counseled men to seek their own path to the Maker. But the Chantry uses her works as a reason to collar us just for being who we are.”

Malcolm’s gaze moved from the Andraste statue to the chantry building as a slight shudder ran through him, perhaps the result of remembering his own Harrowing. “The Chantry is afraid of that which it cannot control.” 

“All beings are afraid of that which they cannot control,” said Sten. “It is the way of the world.”

**_It is the way of demons._ **

****_Maybe the Chantry’s run by demons and they persecute other possible demons to keep them from finding out their secret. You never know._

**_It is not very just, this Chantry._ **

****_That’s what I’ve been saying for years._

**_Words should be put into action. The time will come when something must be done to right this wrong._ **

Anders was saved from having to reply by Líadan emerging from the alley, followed by Sigrun, who had what looked like a kitten cradled to her chest. “An orange tabby!” Sigrun said as soon as she caught sight of Anders. “Like you had in that tower of yours.” 

“It wasn’t _my_ tower, not by any means,” Anders said, trying to sound grumpy, but failing entirely because Sigrun’s smile tended to be contagious.

She extended the kitten toward him. “When I saw the kitten in the alley pouncing on a piece of trash, Líadan told me about the cat you missed from when you were imprisoned in that tower. So I caught it for you.”

“I...” The tiny, mewling kitten was deposited in his arms. “Thank you.” He studied the ginger tabby for a moment and the name suddenly came to him. “I shall dub you Ser Pounce-a-Lot.” The only place he had to keep it was his pack, but that would do. He couldn’t possibly be expected to leave the warm little furry friend behind in this Maker-forsaken city. Anders glanced over at Malcolm, the Warden technically in charge of their group, to make sure. He’d never thought Malcolm as not being an animal person, since he _and_ his partner both had a mabari, but he’d never really gotten the younger man’s opinion about cats.

Malcolm first looked at his mabari, Gunnar, and then Líadan’s mabari, Revas, before giving Anders a rueful smile—apparently, he’d thought the same. “Sure, keep it. Maybe you can turn it into a vicious attack kitten.”

“Better’n keeping a pet _nug_ ,” said Oghren. “Did you know that bard kept a pet nug during the Blight? Right torture, that was, a snack running around right under my nose.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Is that what I kept hearing from her tent? Because I don’t recall seeing a nug. I could’ve sworn it was... something else.”

“You thought it was her with Alistair?” Líadan asked.

Malcolm clapped his hands over his ears. “Not listening! Not listening!” Then when he realized Líadan hadn’t gone on with the previous subject, he lowered his hands and looked over at Oghren again. “So she really had a nug? Why didn’t I know?”

“She kept it secret. Didn’t want you making fun of her. Only reason I knew about it was because it escaped once and she stopped me from eating it. I mean, you’ve had nug. So tender and juicy...” Oghren pretended to wipe drool from the corner of his mouth. “Wonder what happened to that nug.”

At least, Anders hoped Oghren was pretending. Eating someone else’s pet just didn’t seem right. “You wouldn’t eat a cat, would you?”

“Ancestors, no! What’s wrong with you, mage?”

“I thought it was a fair question,” said Líadan. Her eyes moved from Oghren and Anders over to the opposite side of the square. “Don’t look now, but I think we have visitors.”

Which, of course, made them all look. In the middle of a pack of templars was a shackled mage. Anders winced while Líadan and the other Wardens glared, except for one of them.

“Good to see _basra_ handling mages properly,” said Sten. 

The glares fixed on the templars briefly turned to Sten before returning to the templars. The Wardens watched as the group crossed through the square, one templar declaring to the alarmed citizens of Tantervale that there wasn’t anything to worry about. The mage was merely an apostate, and not a maleficar. Anders wondered why a “mere” apostate would need to be shackled. He knew those shackles; they’d been around his wrists and ankles more times than he cared to count. Most mages went back to their Circles meekly, heads hanging and no threat whatsoever to the templars who escorted them. Only supreme flight risks—like Anders had been—or dangerous mages were brought back to Circles in chains.

**_Is that mage a slave?_ **

Anders held in a sigh. _She might as well be._

Mages had been and, he suspected, would be slaves to the Chantry for the rest of the foreseeable future. A growing part of him seethed at no possibility of escape from the Chantry’s oversight. All mages becoming Grey Wardens, as he had, wasn’t an acceptable solution.

**_You seem to struggle against your oppression._ **

_I avoid my oppression. That’s not quite the same thing, is it?_

**_Why do you not strike a blow against your oppressors? Ensure they can do this to no one else?_ **

_Because it sounds difficult?_ The mere thought certainly made him tired.

**_Apathy is a weakness_ ** _._

_So is not having a body of your own. I’m just saying._

Anders refused to further engage the spirit in debate over the mages’ plight, and considered the matter over. Justice, however, did not share that opinion, and refused to drop the subject. He did leave it dormant for a while, and it wasn’t until they were trudging through the blasted Arlathan Forest that Justice made another pronouncement regarding Anders.

**_I believe you have a responsibility to your fellow mages._ **

****_This habit you have of making declarative statements concerning beings other than yourself must have been a real hit at parties._

**_There are no parties in the Fade._ **

****_Lies. I dreamed about parties all the time._

**_You are changing the subject._ **

****Anders held in another sigh. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. _What’s your point?_

**_You were oppressed and are now free. You must act to free those who remain oppressed._ **

****_Or I could mind my own business, in case the Chantry comes knocking. Especially since I’ve got you sharing my living space, as it were. If they found out about you, they’d declare me an abomination, and we’d both be in a lot of trouble. Most likely dead. So I think I’ll keep to myself._

**_But this is not right. You have an obligation._ I _have an obligation._**

****Anders wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but Justice sounded more than a little irritated or outraged. More like angry. Very angry. _I might have an obligation, but I don’t have a death wish. If I were to go against the Chantry to try to free my fellow mages, that’s where it would end—death._

**_I will not die. Not as you die._ **

****_Not very comforting. Also not helping your cause._

In Ayesleigh, they came upon another party of templars dragging in yet another apostate, this one a young child, no older than six or seven. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, tracks left from tears in the dirt on her cheeks. The girl kept looking behind her, as if searching for her family. 

“Doesn’t look like she was given up willingly,” said Sigrun.

“Not if she keeps looking behind her like that,” said Anders.

“It’s barbaric and horrible and awful.” Líadan glared at the templars, and then set her jaw in determination. “It’s a good thing I can’t have a child of my own. If he—or she—ended up a mage, I would never give her up. I would have to be dead before the Chantry could take her.”

The same as what had happened with Líadan’s own parents in defending her from templars, Anders remembered. There stood a chance—though it seemed Líadan had yet to realize it, judging from her insistence that she couldn’t have a child—that history would repeat itself with the child she unknowingly carried, should it inherit magic. And it stood a very good chance of doing so, considering the strength of mage Malcolm’s mother had been, and Líadan being a mage herself.

Anders felt a pang of sadness, but that was quickly burned up by a rage he didn’t know he’d even possessed. Rage over the injustice his friends would face in the future, rage over the injustice parents suffered every day when their fledgling mage children were taken by the Chantry. As the rage carried through him, he lost himself, unable to distinguish between himself and Justice with both of them possessing of the same rage. 

It wasn’t until they were on the ship to Ostwick that he was able to remember his name. _I am Anders. Anders. I am not anyone else. I am Anders._ Part of him thought that if he just kept repeating it, he would feel better.

He didn’t. 

**_You would feel better if you acted toward our obligation._ **

****_I have an obligation to the Wardens. They saved me from the Circle. I gave them my oath._

**_We have an obligation to save the other mages who still suffer what you now do not._ **

****_I have an obligation to Malcolm. He’s my friend. I can’t just leave him in the middle of a journey._

**_The journey is coming to an end. He does not need you._ **

****_Líadan will need a healer. You were with me when I discovered—_

**_There are other healers._ **

****Anders sighed, hoping no one would notice and ask. _We’ll leave once Malcolm finds Morrigan, all right? That was the point of this entire journey._

**_We have our own journey to complete. His is not ours._ **

****By the time they reached Ostwick, Anders had had enough. Justice simply wouldn’t shut up, the rage just kept building, and he needed an outlet. He needed a purpose, to _do_ something that would help the mages escape the binds of the Chantry. He told Malcolm that he was running to the market to get some supplies, and in his defense, he _did_ run to the market—and through the market and out the city gates to the road beyond. 

As he walked along the road in the gray of twilight, guilt clung to his shoulders. Yet, a sense of righteousness and anticipation nipped at his heels, pushing him onward. He moved faster, putting the city and his old life behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

“Perhaps, in the end, it felt remorse. Perhaps it was one lost soul recognizing another.”

— _from the journals of Amrun, Legion of the Dead_

**Malcolm**

“Well,” said Malcolm, squinting up into the bright sky where Flemeth had flown away, “that was not what I expected.”

“I thought there would be more death,” said Líadan. “Or shouting, or in the very least, a dragon setting you on fire.”

He ignored the jab at his propensity at being set on fire. At the moment, he was at a personal best on length of time where he hadn’t been on fire. If at all possible, he preferred to keep it that way. “There’s also not a varterral around, at least that I can see.” After raking his gaze across the field, he looked over at Líadan. “You see it?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing. Maybe _Asha’belannar_ killed it.” She paused to consider. “Or it ran away from her, crying.”

“Wouldn’t blame it if it did.” Flemeth could do that to a person, Malcolm thought, dragon form or not. Come to think of it, so could Morrigan.

A short, familiar figure appeared at the mouth of the pass. “Everyone over there all right?” Hildur shouted over at the group.

“So it would appear,” said Malcolm.

“Huh,” Hildur said once she got closer. “I figured Flemeth would’ve killed you.”

Malcolm had assumed the same, especially when he’d walked out of the Deep Roads entrance and found the crow perched upon the fallen dwarven statue, waiting for them. He shrugged. “Maybe she likes me?”

“I think she likes _toying_ with you,” said Líadan.

“As long as it keeps me alive.” He didn’t say that she was probably right.

Hildur studied the members of the group who had made it outside the Deep Roads first, as well as the Dalish elves of the Ra’asiel clan now pouring out of the entrance and into the field. “Where’s Nathaniel? I thought he would’ve been with you to help clear the way.”

Malcolm glanced at the group exiting the Deep Roads, and then reluctantly back at Hildur. He still wasn’t entirely sure of what had happened back there, and certainly had no idea of how to explain it properly. “I lost him.”

Her eyes narrowed and her hands, curling into fists, found their way to her hips. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

“I mean, he was there, and then he wasn’t. He followed Morrigan.”

“On purpose?” asked Oghren, who then let out a low whistle. “That boy has bigger stones than I thought.”

A scowl darkened Hildur’s normally bright features. “And just where did they go?”

“Um...” Malcolm quickly looked around the field again, both trying to escape maintaining eye contact with the slowly angering Hildur, and trying to suss out an answer that wouldn’t provoke her anger further. “Somewhere? Morrigan didn’t exactly specify. ‘Not here’ is really the best answer I can come up with.”

“When will they return?”

“Also not specified.”

“Did she specify anything?”

“Come to think of it—no. Family trait of theirs, I suppose. Neither Flemeth nor Morrigan were particularly inclined toward specificity. They’re specious, more like.”

“Suspicious?” asked Oghren.

“That too. Well, more Morrigan than Flemeth. Flemeth pretty much knows everything. Morrigan suspects Flemeth of, well, everything.”

“She should,” said Alistair. “Everyone should. I mean, holy _Maker_. I don’t know whether she’s coming or going or controlling everything or what. I entirely expected Malcolm to get eaten by a Flemeth-dragon, and then I’d have to go back to Highever and explain that to Fergus all while trying to keep the teyrn of Highever from beating my face in for losing his brother.”

Malcolm suddenly remembered the crisis they’d left behind them at Highever—the army of templars marching on the castle, a castle that was already half-collapsed from the rampaging dragon. “Fergus,” he said quietly, and then looked at Hildur. “Any news?”

She nodded, the frustration of losing another Warden fading from her eyes. “It’s a mess, but last message said that the templars were defeated.” She glanced appraisingly up at the sky. “Something about Queen Anora and Ser Cauthrien and the Fereldan army smashing them from behind. Also rumors of some sort of magical attack, but nothing solid, just speculation thus far.” Hildur quickly touched Malcolm on the arm. “And Highever’s outer walls held. Your brother is fine. That’s the most information I have right now. We’ll have to descend from here to get more.”

Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief. Lately, it’d seemed like every time something new and good came into his life, something else got taken away. Fergus could’ve been the price for Cáel. He looked toward the entrance to the Deep Roads, where Panowen was conferencing with Lanaya, and was that Ariane? He’d thought he’d heard Morrigan mention she preferred Ariane to be Cáel’s guard over Karam, the frightful-looking woman, but he’d never gotten the chance to explain that Ariane _hated_ him. And now he couldn’t go against Morrigan’s wishes and get another guard, could he? Ha, no. He had a feeling this would happen a lot as the boy grew up.

Then it fully struck him that Morrigan was gone. More gone than before. Not merely hiding somewhere on Thedas, or walking the Fade, but somewhere no one could reach unless they managed to find another working eluvian. Or until Morrigan herself decided to return, but that could be longer than a lifetime. All he had left were memories, the friends she’d left behind—though she would never call them that—and Cáel. 

The giddiness and humor that had flooded him at being left alive by Flemeth departed. Most of what had driven him in the past year was gone. Not that he’d been left without purpose or without a life to live, but everything had changed. And he was fairly certain it wasn’t even the change Morrigan had referred to. They had the conflict with the Chantry to clear up, casualties to determine, a kingdom to shore up, eluvians to find and destroy, and... he looked over at Panowen, who was now making her way over to Malcolm’s small group, Cáel in her arms. 

He had a son to raise. Then he looked over at Líadan. And someone to raise his son with. His hand went to his cheek, newly scarless. As if to emphasize the changes in his life—and to underscore that Morrigan was truly gone—Flemeth had taken his scar. No, she had healed it. Healed _him,_ at the moment he’d needed it most, even though he hadn’t known it.

Malcolm sat down hard on the fallen dwarven statue. 

Líadan turned at the sound and raised an eyebrow. “Just hit you, did it?”

He ran a weary hand over his face. “You could say that.”

“Hit him?” asked Hildur, interrupting her conversation with the other Wardens about preparing to descend into the valley. “What’s left to hit him? Flemeth didn’t kill him and I saw her fly away, so I assume she’s leaving him alone. He should—” She stopped, having noticed Panowen’s approach. “Who’s this?”

“Panowen,” said Malcolm, though he doubted playing oblivious would get him anywhere.

And it didn’t. “Not who I was referring to and you know it.” Hildur inclined her head in apology towards Panowen. “No offense.”

Panowen smiled, clearly amused by the situation. Malcolm decided that Panowen had spent far too much time with Morrigan. Then Panowen handed Cáel to Malcolm. “Ariane and I must help the clan prepare for the journey down. I will be back for him when he needs to eat.” Hands free, she motioned toward Hildur and the other Wardens. “You have introductions to make, do you not?”

Yes, _far_ too much time in Morrigan’s company.

After another amused look shared with Hildur, Panowen returned to the large group of Ra’asiel milling about in the clearing.

Hildur cleared her throat. “Well?”

“His name is Cáel,” Malcolm said, holding the boy facing outwards. He was awake, but seemed fairly content at the moment. Malcolm wondered how long that would last.

Hildur crossed her arms. “And?”

“He’s my son.”

“That much is screamingly apparent. I take it he’s also Morrigan’s?”

“Not any longer,” said Líadan. “She gave him to Malcolm. And me. Us. Both of us.”

Malcolm glanced over at Líadan, surprised at how she’d stumbled over the words. That wasn’t like her. Usually, it was his job to bumble through explanations. Granted, this situation was certainly different than anything else they’d encountered.

“To raise,” Líadan finished saying, crossing her arms in mirror of Hildur.

Nearby, Alistair smothered a laugh behind his hand. 

Hildur stepped closer to Malcolm and Cáel, leaning over to peer at the infant—though, as a dwarf, she didn’t have to go far. “He doesn’t _look_ like an Old God. Missing the fangs. And scales. Wings, too. Also the whippy tail.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You know very well that Morrigan would never give up the child with the Old God’s soul. You’re just messing with them now.”

The observation brought a smile to Hildur’s feigned-serious countenance. “I know.” Then she reached out and stroked the reddish hair on Cáel’s head. “Looks like you when you were but a babe, Malcolm. I remember you being around Weisshaupt just after you were born.” At his surprised look, she said, “Yes, I’m older than you think. I’ve still got a good decade left before my Calling, though, so don’t worry about me disappearing into the Deep Roads anytime soon. It’s about time we had some continuity around here with the Grey Warden command.” With a final ruffle of Cáel’s hair, she straightened. “I think it will be a nice change of pace to have a child in the garrison. It did wonders to lighten the mood of the Anders, so I bet it’ll really help with the Fereldans.” She looked over at Alistair. “Speaking as someone born into a royal family, as king, you should get to legitimizing the boy as soon as possible. Until you have a child of your own, he’s the only heir you have.”

Alistair startled. “I hadn’t even thought of that yet.”

“Well, you’re still fairly new at this royalty thing, so you get a pass. But the jackals will start nipping soon, so the boy’s place in the line needs to be secured.”

Malcolm’s mind finally caught up with the situation. “Wait, wait, what? You can’t make him an heir. If he somehow becomes king, Morrigan will return from wherever that she is and _geld me_.”

“If she does, you don’t need your stones anymore, anyway. You made an heir, so your job is done. Now, if you want to save your stones, you’d better ask your brother to get cracking on an heir of his own,” said Hildur.

“Is that an official Grey Warden order?” asked Alistair.

Hildur rubbed at her chin, as if considering. “Hmm. Possibly. I suppose I could make it official. I mean, I’m sure the Grey Wardens would like Ferelden to be stable and not in danger of a civil war for the foreseeable future. Only way to get that to happen is to have more Theirins. So, yes, consider it an order.” She paused, some of her good humor dropping away, and looked between Malcolm and Líadan. “And you’ll need to get your situation—whatever it is—sorted out in some kind of offical way or it will always, always be a problem that Malcolm is technically on the noble market.”

Malcolm stood. “But I don’t—”

“I can’t—” Líadan started to say.

Hildur waved them quiet. “Shut it, both of you. Just... figure it out. I don’t care how. Make it happen.”

Líadan looked over at Alistair. “Can she even lawfully give that order?”

“Hey, she ordered _me_ to father children, so I don’t want to hear it.”

Then Oghren and the rest of the Wardens who’d accompanied them into Drake’s Fall pushed forward, wanting to meet Cáel, as well as get the whole story about what’d happened with Morrigan. Soon enough, Panowen returned to reclaim Cáel, saying the boy needed to be fed, and that she would be carrying him on the trail since the Wardens needed to be ready to fight in case of any errant groups of darkspawn. Yet it would be another couple of hours before the two groups made their way out of the cirque and onto the trail out of the mountains. 

Malcolm noticed the remains of a pyre just outside the cirque’s opening and looked to Alistair. “Who?” he asked.

“Mhairi,” he said. “High dragon. Plucked her from the ground, carried her way up, and then dropped her. Lots of screaming. No fire. Not a nice sound when she hit the ground again. Very sad.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t live. I thought that woman had nine lives or something considering how many times she should’ve died before that.”

“At least she went out well. Besides, better to be killed by a dragon than a horde of darkspawn during your Calling, right?”

“Not this young. Maybe if I’m nearing my Calling, it might look like a better option.”

“How about we don’t talk about that at all?” asked Líadan. “I’ve had enough of doom and death lately.”

Alistair frowned at the trail down the mountain, eyes going momentarily vacant, as if he were thinking of what lay ahead of them. “There’s more waiting for us in the valley, you know.”

“But those are dead _templars_.” The thought brought a smile to her face. “That’s almost cheery.”

He gave her the side eye. “You scare me sometimes.”

Her smile grew wider, even through the tiredness showing in her eyes. “Why do you think Morrigan liked me?”

“Malcolm,” said Alistair, closing the distance enough between himself and his brother so that he could sling an arm around his shoulders, “you and I need to have a little chat about the women you choose to keep company with.”

“First off, I don’t choose. It just happens. It isn’t like I set out with the fantastic idea of finding the most intimidating, intelligent, strong, and beautiful women to fall in love with. I mean, sure they make things exciting and a challenge, but they just so happen to be the ones I find. Second,” Malcolm said, and then gave Alistair a pointed look, “Leliana.” He held up his hand to stop Alistair from protesting. “Third: Anora. Judging from your own choices, it seems you haven’t much leg to stand on.”

“Well... whatever. At least I’m taller than you.”

Malcolm stared at him. “What has that got to do with—wait, you are not.”

“I am, which is how it should be, since I’m the elder. Also, I’m the king, so it’s more regal.”

He’d be damned if Alistair would win this argument. His claim was entirely baseless. “We’re the same height. The only reason you look taller is because you have that stupid bit of hair sticking up in the front. That’s all. It’s an illusion.”

Alistair’s hands flew to his hair. “It isn’t stupid!”

“You know,” said Hildur, dropping back to walk beside the two brothers, “listening to you two go on like a couple of schoolboys reminds me why I’m happy that Alistair isn’t an active Warden. It also makes me happy that I never got that little brother I asked for.”

“I’m almost hurt, Warden Commander,” said Alistair. 

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m calling a halt to rest for the night. Everyone’s looking fairly ragged, and we’ve descended far enough that we should be able to reach the valley by tomorrow.”

“I think it’s a good idea. At least, I’m assuming you’re at least keeping up the appearance that Ferelden’s king may have given the order to halt the march.”

“Not even,” said Hildur, a wry smile on her lips. “Keeper Lanaya is the one who told _me_ we were stopping. I thought I’d pass the news along to you, Your Majesty.”

“Well, never cross those Dalish, that’s for sure.” Alistair turned expectantly toward Líadan for her reaction.

Usually, it would’ve been a smart retort, but this time, she waved him off. “Bedroll,” she said. “I was up way too late last night.” Then she made her way into the clearing where the other Wardens were already setting up tents and digging a firepit.

Malcolm followed, a little concerned about how tired Líadan was, because they’d all stayed up late last night. Barely anyone slept, Dalish and Warden alike, and no one else appeared to be as exhausted. Plus, she was a Grey Warden, so it’d take days of nights like that to make them as tired as she seemed. As he walked, he slung the pack off his back and dumped it on the ground where it seemed Líadan had decided she was taking her nap. Ignoring everyone else, she unrolled her bedroll and nearly collapsed on top of it, not even bothering to take off her boots. Malcolm shrugged and went about setting up the tent while she rested. Or, he realized as he finished up the job and let the flap shut, while she completely passed out. And was she _snoring_? 

Footsteps sounded behind him, and then Alistair asked, “Did... did she just fall asleep while you were putting up the tent around her?”

“I think so.” Malcolm concentrated on it being adorable instead of concerning.

Alistair didn’t help with the endeavor. “That can’t be normal. Or good.”

“Well, I mean, we did fight an ogre...” Malcolm sighed, giving up on the joke halfway through.

“No, we didn’t,” said Alistair. “You’re only saying that because if we _had_ fought an ogre, this new behavior of hers wouldn’t be worrisome.

“Maybe.” All right, so he was still more than a bit mad about the height thing.

Alistair stared at his brother.

“Okay, fine. Yes.” Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck and glanced over at the Dalish side of the camp. Panowen had told him while they walked that she and Ariane would set up near the Wardens. He, she had informed him, needed to spend time with his son and get to know him. And learn how to care for him, since her time helping would be as short as possible, and the next nurse might not be able to do as much as she could and men helped just as much as women in Dalish clans. Besides that, she had her own child to attend to, as well. Malcolm was pretty sure she’d inadvertently launched into a pre-emptive lecture about taking her for granted, but he wasn’t entirely certain. Maybe Panowen would have some sort of idea about Líadan. Or accuse him of doing something to her. Either way.

“Well, I need to go speak with Lanaya and Hildur about overnight watches,” said Alistair. “Maybe Lanaya’s got enough well-rested hunters that we won’t have to stand a watch. That’d be nice. Oh, and I’m going to ask Lanaya to have a look at Líadan when she has a chance. Or if she’s too busy, maybe her First can figure out what’s wrong.”

That brought Malcolm out of his reverie. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders before he could walk off. “No! No, no. Not Oisín. He hates me for some reason.”

“What, you threaten him like you threatened Ariane?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “ _Accident_. Anyway, I don’t know what I did to him, but there you have it.”

“He seemed perfectly polite to you at Highever and on the way here. I didn’t notice any sort of hatred.”

“It’s the seething kind. The quiet, dangerous kind. You know, maybe it’d be best if you didn’t ask anyone to look at Líadan. She can ask herself if she’s that worried. I mean, if she finds out that you or I sent the Keeper her way without running it by her first, she’d have our heads.”

Alistair glanced back at the tent where Líadan slept. “All right, only because I know you’re right. But if this goes on for a few more days, I might have to pull rank. Or tell Wynne and hide behind her.”

“Better the second option,” said Oghren, settling down next to the fire that Sigrun had started. “Wynne saving your arses is your only hope of survival if you piss off the elf. And going over her head? That’ll put her in a right snit. I don’t know about you boys, but I’d prefer avoiding that if at all possible. ‘Sides, you’ve got a nuglet to care for.” He indicated behind them with his head. 

Panowen, accompanied by Ariane, had appeared. “Are you ready to watch him?” Panowen asked Malcolm as Ariane set about getting their tents up alongside the Warden tents.

“No,” said Malcolm.

“Yes, you are,” said Alistair. “You cared for your nephew lots, didn’t you? It’ll be like that, only smaller. And more breakable. Also yours. And I could help, you know.”

“Because you cared for babies so very often being raised in the Chantry?”

“I figured I’d bumble along. I mean well.”

“I thought you had to go see Lanaya?”

“Oh, right. I suppose I should go do that.” He made a silly face at Cáel as Panowen handed him to the nervous Malcolm. “And here I thought I’d get a break from decision-making. Then again, they’ll probably already have made all the decisions and they’ll just pretend to let me in on it.”

Malcolm adjusted the hold he had on his son. “Just don’t mention anything about Líadan.”

“Right.” Alistair didn’t look him in the eye.

“Alistair. Seriously, don’t. You’ll regret it. _I’ll_ regret it.”

He sighed. “All right, all right.” Then Alistair was off, crossing paths with a couple Dalish hunters asking for a couple Wardens to help dress a deer they’d gotten while ranging off the trail earlier in the day. 

Malcolm settled on a log next to the firepit, trying to figure out how one entertained a three month old. Lucky for him, Gunnar hopped up from lounging in front of the fire to help out. Revas stayed where she’d parked herself, right outside the tent where Líadan slept. Malcolm concentrated on Cáel to distract himself from concern that would get him a sound scolding.

She didn’t wake up until the smell of roasting venison wafted through the camp, the Wardens having brought back some given to them by the Dalish hunters. Panowen and Ariane, having long finished pitching their tents, informed Malcolm they’d come by for Cáel in time for his next feeding, and then went to speak with Lanaya at some length. In fact, he confirmed as he glanced over at Lanaya’s fire, they were still in conference, and it’d been well over an hour.

The sound of Wardens demolishing their dinner finally made Líadan thrust her head through the tent flap. “I smell fresh food, not trail rations.”

“Aye,” said Oghren. “And if you don’t want me eating your share, you’ll get your bony rump over here.”

“Not bony,” Líadan muttered as she ducked out and made her way to the fire.

“How’d you sleep in all that armor?” asked Tiernan, one of the Wardens who’d Joined just before winter, at the same time as Velanna. To Malcolm, it seemed like forever ago.

“Practice.” Líadan tried to smooth out her sleep-mussed hair as she spoke. “The Deep Roads isn’t a place to go unarmored, but spend more than a day there and you’ll eventually be forced to sleep.”

Tiernan glanced between Malcolm and Líadan. “So... this isn’t a normal thing?”

“Oh, it is,” said Malcolm, while trying to keep Cáel’s swiping arms from knocking food off his battered plate. Wasn’t this ‘grab everything’ stage supposed to start later? “It’s how she protects her virtue.”

Oghren’s face lit up at the opening. “Not from what I’ve—”

Líadan bumped the dwarf hard as she got her own food. “Say any more and I will give away all your ale. Mark my words.”

He contemplated it for a moment, stroking the braids on his beard, and then shrugged. “Eh, not worth it. You know where all my stashes are, and it isn’t like I can walk around sober. Not proper.”

Cáel made another swipe, and Malcolm was barely able to catch the biscuit before it hit the dirt and ended up in a mabari’s mouth, all while balancing plate and baby.

“I’ve finished eating for the time being, so I can wrangle the nuglet if you want,” Oghren said as he wiped his hands on the lower edges of his tabard.

Every Warden sitting at the fire stopped eating to stare at Oghren.

He raised his hands in innocence. “What? Just because I’m warrior caste doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take care of a nuglet. Dwarven babies are too few and far between to pass that up.” He turned to Malcolm. “Now give him here. He can tug at Uncle Oghren’s beard instead of stealing his da’s food.”

“I’m his uncle, Oghren.” Alistair practically lunged for the food as soon as he got to the firepit, Hildur right behind him from their chat with Lanaya and the others.

Malcolm sighed and handed Cáel to Oghren. Hopefully, it wouldn’t bring Morrigan swooping back from Arlathan to give him what for. She at least had tolerated the dwarf when they all traveled together.

Oghren took the boy and tucked him into the crook of a surprisingly practiced arm. Then he looked triumphantly over at Alistair. “You’ll have to share, pike-twirler. All the Wardens are his family. Besides, he’s got to have at least one uncle with a proper beard to pull. Childhood isn’t right without it.”

“Dalish childhoods must be horrible then, given none of the men can even grow beards,” Líadan said with a grumble as she sat next to Malcolm.

Alistair made to object to Oghren’s statement, but Hildur cut him off as soon as he opened his mouth. “He’s right on both counts. One thing I do miss about Orzammar are the beards.”

“I could—”Oghren started to say.

“No,” Hildur said before he could get any further.

“You’d have liked Duncan,” said Alistair. “He had a good beard.”

“That lord the brothers pike-twirler argue with all the time had a right good beard on him, at least up until he shaved it off.” Oghren shook his head and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye with his free hand. “Such a shame.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Eamon didn’t shave it. He trimmed it.”

“Bah, with how close he trimmed, he might well have shaved it. Beard that see-through is no beard at all.”

“Beards are a strange affectation among humans and dwarves,” said Oisín, who was slowly approaching the Wardens’ fire. “Especially dwarves. I’ll never understand the braids.”

“And you elf types permanently paint your faces,” said Oghren, sounding more than a little indignant. “What’s it to you?”

Oisín raised his eyebrows, apparently surprised by the animosity in Oghren’s tone. “It’s nothing to me. Merely an observation. I apologize if I’ve offended, Warden.”

Oghren grunted. “All right, apology accepted. Can’t expect a people who can’t grow beards to understand ‘em.”

Malcolm was almost jealous of the apology. Oisín had never apologized for him for how he’d treated him. And judging by the look Oisín gave him when he caught sight of him sitting next to Líadan, he knew he shouldn’t expect one anytime soon, either.

Oisín’s steady gaze shifted to directly address Líadan. “Keeper Lanaya would like to speak with you.”

Líadan seemed startled at the request, almost nervous in the way she straightened her back. “What about?”

“She did not say, but she did seem adamant about talking with you.”

Líadan wordlessly passed her half-full plate to Malcolm, sighed, and stood up. “I’ll walk back with you,” she said to Oisín. After he nodded his assent, she touched Malcolm on the shoulder before following the First over to Lanaya’s fire.

His brow furrowed and his mouth turning into a frown, Malcolm watched them go. “I wonder what that’s about.”

“Who knows,” said Oghren. “Elves are weird.”

“Dwarves aren’t much better.” But Malcolm’s reply was only half-hearted as he tried to sort out why the Keeper would want to see Líadan almost urgently. Then he heard someone’s feet shuffling and glanced around to find the guilty party. He almost immediately settled a glare on Alistair. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Alistair held up his hands. “I mean, I didn’t do anything, not exactly. I may have said something, though. Possibly. Maybe to a Keeper with healing abilities about a Warden who could be coming down with something.”

“Without running it by her first? You’re living dangerously. Your royal status won’t save you from her wrath.”

“Well, if she’s as tired as she has been when she comes after me, it’ll be like a summer squall compared to her usual winter storm kind of wrath.”

Sigrun wrinkled her nose and made a show of quickly moving away from Oghren. “Really, Oghren? Not even a word of warning? Some of us are still eating.”

He grinned. “Ha! Much as I’d like to claim that one, it was the nuglet.” He held Cáel out to Alistair, who was closer than Malcolm. “Uncle Oghren doesn’t do diapers. You boys are on your own.”

Alistair looked rather more than panicked as he held Cáel as far away from his body as safely possible. “Maybe we should flip for it,” he said to Malcolm. “Best two out of three.”

Decent odds, Malcolm figured. “Let me get the supplies Panowen left, first.”

Alistair nodded and followed him. After Malcolm retrieved the necessities, he fetched a coin from the purse on his belt and made ready to toss. 

“Oh, no,” said Alistair. “Neutral party does the tossing. I trust you, but I don’t trust you.”

Sigrun jumped at the chance and accepted the coin from Malcolm.

After only two flips, Alistair was celebrating in victory after passing Cáel along. Malcolm watched his brother lord it over him that he’d won, and decided to get even. Once Alistair’s back was turned, Malcolm paid a quick visit to his brother’s tent—modest on this trip since it was with the Wardens and nothing officially royal—and grabbed Alistair’s shield. “This’ll do,” he said to Cáel. Then he went back outside the tents, near the fire so Cáel wouldn’t get too cold, and set about his task. He’d done it enough times for Oren when he was a baby, and the learned motions returned quickly enough.

Sigrun got up from her place at the fire, heading toward her tent. When she caught sight of Malcolm and Cáel, she halted, quirked her head, and asked, “Why would you use a shield?”

One hand holding the linen in place, Malcolm said, “The sides curve up a bit so he can’t roll out.” He frowned. “If he’s rolling. Not sure if he is, but I’m not taking any chances.”

They heard a sputter of indignation as Alistair stepped up beside Sigrun. “That’s _my shield_! That’s the King’s shield! A royal shield!”

Malcolm grinned up at his brother, telling him without words that he should’ve changed the diaper himself. “Well, then, it’s suitable, isn’t it? He’s a prince. Why not a royal changing table of sorts?”

Laughter rang out from around and beyond the light of the campfire. “Is that a statement on the Fereldan monarchy?” Hildur asked.

“More than you realize,” said Alistair.

Eventually, Líadan returned to the Warden area of the overnight camp, Panowen and Ariane trailing slightly behind her. From the expression on Líadan’s face, Malcolm guessed they were giving her space, for she looked troubled, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a bit flustered. Well, it couldn’t have been Lanaya having asked Líadan to be her First, at least. Oisín had that quite covered. 

As she passed him, he asked, “What’s—”

Líadan lifted her hand, palm out. It was her way of asking for some time alone to think. He understood and acquiesced without protest, but she gave him a discomfited look anyway.

“A bit of advice?” said Alistair. “Maybe just... hold the baby in front of you, like a shield. She wouldn’t hurt him. You, on the other hand, seem to be fair game.”

Líadan fired a dark look at Alistair, and then headed out to the deserted edges of the camp. 

“Judging from the look you just got, I think you fall into the ‘fair game’ category, too,” Malcolm said to Alistair.

Alistair glanced toward where Líadan had gone, and then extended his arms toward his brother. “Quick, hand me the kid.”

Panowen frowned at them both. “A child is not to be used as a shield, even in jest.” Then she plucked Cáel from Malcolm’s lap and strode away.

“You seem to be back into good form for your Dalish elf baiting,” Alistair said. “Maybe you should rethink that strategy considering we’re traveling with half a Dalish clan, and soon to meet up with the other half.”

“Maybe you should shut up,” said Malcolm, hoping Panowen, and by extension Ariane, who scared him more, weren’t that mad at him.

When Líadan returned from her walk around the camp’s perimeter, she practically flopped herself down next to Malcolm. Then she drew up her knees, rested her arms on them, and then propped her head on her arms. “You know, I’d love a vacation.”

Malcolm studied her, trying to figure out what was going on, yet not wanting to risk upsetting her more. So, he opted for his usual. “Where would we even go on vacation? Antiva is lovely, but has Antivans, Orlais has far too many Orlesians, the Free Marches are like Ferelden, but with strange honorifics, warmer temperatures, and less dogs, and the Anderfels are cold—not to mention, chock full of Anders and an assortment of darkspawn, then—”

“There’s Cadash thaig.”

“When you mention that, did you forget the part about it being in the Deep Roads?”

She squinted at the flames as if mulling over her choice. “But it isn’t _really_ like the Deep Roads.”

“We’d still have to get through darkspawn, deepstalkers, and thaig crawlers before we’d reach it. And then the Legion of the Dead is there, so that’ll just remind us that we’re in the Deep Roads. Let’s save that for retirement.” When she didn’t reply, he asked, “What brought this on?” He really wanted to ask about her chat with Lanaya, but since Líadan was clearly avoiding the subject, he thought it was to do the same, if nothing for his own safety. Maybe she’d bring it up on her own if he left it well alone.

Right, and maybe nugs would fly out of Oghren’s ass.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She turned to face him, but kept her head resting on her arms. “Maybe the fact that we’ve been running ourselves ragged, barely finished one task, and now for the foreseeable future, it doesn’t seem like we’ll have a chance to even catch our breath.”

He wondered if it were a mental exhaustion fueling a physical one, then. It happened enough with soldiers during wartime, and they’d not stopped, not really, since before the Blight. Even the winter spent in Denerim didn’t count—there’d been issues dealing with the nobility, Alistair and Anora’s wedding, and the question of Morrigan hanging over them. And though they’d found Morrigan and said their farewells before she’d fled for safety with her son, there was a neverending list of tasks waiting for them when they entered the valley. There was the mess with the templars and the Chantry, the half-destroyed Highever Castle, the mission to find and destroy the remaining eluvians, and on top of that, there was Cáel and everything he entailed.

Malcolm sighed. “I wish I could say we will, but...” He shrugged, out of hopeful answers, not that he’d had a ready supply of them in the first place. That was Alistair’s job. 

She gave him a rueful smile. “I know.” Then she leaned against him and returned to contemplating the fire. He left the touchier subjects alone, content with the quiet for the time being. They would have enough upset to face tomorrow, when they returned to Highever.


	4. Chapter 4

“To all appearances, he was a hedge wizard hailing from the Frostbacks, perhaps Alamarri—but from the wild lands if so. Venerable, certainly worthy of respect, but not commanding it. When he stormed into my master’s feasthall and offered his service in a resounding voice, there was laughter at his audacity. Several bondsmen offered to remove the miscreant, but before they could grab him the mage lifted his staff and the bondsmen fell to the ground. Each time they stood, they slipped again, and their antics were met with laughter. Arl Tenedor the Elder, who was not long for this world, demanded to know who this arrogant invader was.” ****

—excerpt from _The Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

****When they reached the edge of the field where the Battle of Highever had taken place, there were far more dead still being collected than they had imagined. Before Teyrna Cauthrien had arrived with the army to swing the balance to Ferelden’s favor, the soldiers of Highever and its bannorns, along with the Royal Guards left to help, had sustained heavy losses. Even the flanking army under Cauthrien hadn’t been able to avoid significant casualties. As for the templar army, Malcolm couldn’t imagine there to be more survivors than he saw bodies on the field.

Bodies that were still being gathered by special details to be burned on proper pyres, as custom for Andrastians. At least half the Templar bodies were already partially burned. Malcolm couldn’t fathom why. Wynne would’ve been healing, not fighting, and even if she were pressed into battle out of dire need, her magic wasn’t strong enough to wreak this kind of devastation. Had the winning side started burning the enemy bodies where they’d fallen and then thought better of it halfway through? 

When the captain of the Royal Guard met them at the outskirts of the battlefield, it was the first topic Malcolm asked about. “What burned all those templars?”

Captain Somerled looked skeptically to the sky, as if still disbelieving the answer he would give. “A dragon, Your Highness.” The Royal Guards, Malcolm had forgotten, were very adamant about using proper titles.

“Dragon?” asked Alistair. “I thought we’d killed it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time something we supposedly killed came back to life. The dead don’t stay dead around here.” Malcolm had a sneaking suspicion about the identity of the dragon.

Somerled gave Malcolm a dubious look before addressing Alistair. “Wasn’t the half-tailed dragon, Your Majesty. Was a new one that flew on over the Waking Sea then swooped down and burned nearly all the templars. Never heard such screams. And then, just like that, it flew away.”

“Huh,” said Alistair. “I guess all swooping isn’t bad.”

Malcolm gave Líadan a triumphant grin. “Flemeth does like us!” 

“Or she just hates templars more,” said Hildur. “She _is_ a mage, so it’s hard to tell.”

Sigrun frowned. “I thought Flemeth was a dragon.”

“Only sometimes,” said Malcolm. “And I thought you were over your thing with dragons. You got to fight one, didn’t you?”

“No.” She scowled up at the sky. “We didn’t get to Highever from the Vigil until the soldiers and the Dalish had already killed it.”

He gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. With the way things have been going, we’re sure to come across another one within the next couple of years.”

Somerled cleared his throat to interrupt the Wardens—something he was well familiar with after the winter in Denerim. “We should get back to the castle, ser. The Queen is awaiting your arrival, as is Teyrn Fergus.” When that didn’t seem to motivate the Wardens still distracted by the battlefield, he said, “Dinner is also waiting. I believe it’s both fresh, and if you get there quickly enough, hot.”

“Bless you, Somerled,” said Alistair.

“It’s the cooks you should bless, ser.”

The retinue skirted around the field of the dead, keeping a respectful silence as they did, and headed for the half-destroyed Highever Castle. After they passed through the barbican in the other wall, they found Anora and Fergus standing side by side outside the entrance to the keep. Fergus’ presence, Malcolm understood. When matters were urgent or the separation from friends and family long, his impatience drove him to wait outside because he couldn’t stand to be inside. Anora, however, Malcolm knew usually had far more patience, or at least had better control over how she outwardly reacted to her impatience.

The reason became clear when he saw more than a trace of a smile grace her lips when she caught sight of an alive and well Alistair.

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” Líadan whispered to him. “She _has_ grown rather fond of him.” Then she indicated toward them with her head, where Alistair had returned the smile with an ear-to-ear grin. “And I believe Alistair feels the same.”

Malcolm smiled. “Good for them. They deserve it after all that’s happened.”

Fergus stepped forward, wearing a grin much like the king’s. Then he wrapped his brother in a hug, let him go, and did the same with Líadan. “It’s good to see you both alive and all those other nice things.”

Yet even through Fergus’ good cheer, Malcolm could see a haunting in his eyes. So things were not as they were originally reported. “How bad?” he asked.

“Worse than you were told.” Fergus’ voice fell to a near-whisper. “Had Cauthrien not shown up when she had, the walls would’ve been overrun not long after. Sten informed us afterward that we’d had minutes at best before our defenses would’ve been breached. As it is, we lost a third of the Royal Guard, half the Highever guards, and the banns are still accounting for their own men.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Come. We’ll give everyone the full report inside, over food and drink. Maybe especially drink.”

The group walked inside, Oisín staying outside to help direct the Ra’asiel to set up in the space the seneschal had set aside for them within the outer walls. Malcolm suspected it would be mostly out of sight, for the benefit of the Dalish and their need for privacy, probably near the cliffs next to the sea.

Lanaya accompanied the humans, presumably to get the same report about the current state of northern Ferelden as the King and the Wardens. She would certainly require the information in order to decide where it would be best for her clan to go, and when. Panowen and Ariane went in as well, for more than obvious reasons. Once most of the group had passed through the entrance, Anora waited until Malcolm and Líadan approached. She gave Malcolm a small smile and nod in greeting, and then shockingly gave Líadan a quick hug—a greeting for a friend that Malcolm hadn’t expected to be so public. Then again, the outer yard was almost deserted, with the servants and grooms too busy with other tasks to be loitering. Plus, Malcolm wasn’t even sure if Highever had a full complement after the attack from the rampaging dragon, followed quickly by the battle with the Orlesian templars.

Fergus led them to the smaller family dining hall, presumably to keep the rest of the household’s dinner from being interrupted by the entrance of the king and queen. With the size of their group, the room would be close to bursting, but privacy was a necessity for the Wardens’ report, especially so where Morrigan and Flemeth were concerned. They found the room’s long, polished wooden table set, along with a few bustling servants. Malcolm made eye contact with Fergus and raised an eyebrow. He hoped their dining needs hadn’t shorted the staff needed in the main hall. 

As the rest of the group filed into the room, Fergus fell back to speak with Malcolm. “Almost all of the household staff survived both attacks, thank the Maker. We had one death—the journeyman smith Wade had taken on. He was running a new shield up to one of the knights when he was crushed by a collapsing wall. Wade, you should know, is also very upset at the loss of the most promising journeyman he’d ever employed.”

“Did he leave behind any family?”

“We’re still making inquiries. It’s been difficult in the chaos. Hopefully, if there’s anyone, we’ll be able to locate them so they’re provided for.”

It was exactly something Bryce Cousland would have said and done. It warmed Malcolm to hear the same from Fergus. “Father would have done the same.”

“I know.” Fergus seemed to hold in another sigh, and then glanced down the empty hallway, almost wistfully. “Sometimes, I just really wish he were here and teyrn again.”

“You’ve done well, despite the challenges. He’d be proud.”

“I still miss him. Seeing his face, having him around, it was such a reassurance that everything would turn out fine. Of course, it didn’t, not for him or... the rest of them. There are times I wish Howe could be executed again, and then I think I’m becoming like him to feel such things. It isn’t the Highever way. It’s not the Cousland way.”

Fergus had to be the farthest thing from Rendon Howe in existence, except for maybe kittens and puppies. “It isn’t like you’re trying to find his ashes to resurrect them so you can have him killed again. That’s way more his level of nastiness. You, you just want justice to fill the hole he ripped in your life, when it’s something you can never entirely replace, only mend.”

“Yes, I suppose. I’m...” He gave in and sighed. “I’m going to have to remarry soon. Once Highever is closer to normal, the castle rebuilt, I’ll have to start searching. I don’t look forward to it, but I don’t want the Cousland line to end with me.”

“I don’t envy you.” Malcolm at least had Alistair, so he wasn’t the very last of his line. And with the addition of Cáel, the Theirin line seemed in almost decent shape for once. The throne would be another matter, though. Alistair and Anora really needed to have an heir of their own, because almost the last thing Malcolm wanted for his son would be to become king. The only other thing he wanted even less for his son was to be a mage. Not because magic frightened him or he thought it was evil, but that other people, namely the very powerful Chantry, did believe such things. He never wanted to face the choice of handing his child over to the Chantry, nor could he imagine himself doing so. Not after seeing the state of the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold during the Blight. Then again, he couldn’t allow what happened at Redcliffe to happen again, either. There had to be a better way. At least, if he ever had to face that choice, he had a few years before Cáel would show any signs of magic. Meanwhile, he fervently hoped that Morrigan’s prediction that Cáel would not be a mage would come true.

Fergus put an arm around Malcolm’s shoulder. “All right, enough moping with both of us. You’ve got to be hungry, and you don’t want the other Wardens eating your share.”

“Where’s Teyrna Cauthrien?” Malcolm asked as they moved into the dining hall.

“Sorting out the makeshift camp for the prisoners. It’s taken her longer than she estimated. She’ll be disappointed at missing everyone’s arrival. Also for missing a hot meal.”

He wondered just how many templar prisoners they had with needing a camp for them instead of using Highever’s scant dungeons. However, Alistair and Anora needed that information as well, so it was best to hold his more detailed questions until they could hear the answers. Inside the room, they found the Wardens had ignored proper protocol, as usual, and had started eating before the lord of the manor began himself. Which, Malcolm knew, Fergus had expected and didn’t care much for—another reason for eating in the small dining hall instead of the main one, where protocol had to be followed. 

Líadan smiled warmly at him when he walked in, and motioned toward the empty seat next to her. After his saved seat was Panowen, deftly wrangling Cáel while eating her dinner, making the entire process look incredibly easy. Behind her, almost in an unobtrusive corner, Ariane had Panowen’s daughter, Elin, but she looked almost surly about it, which was unusual. The Dalish hunter, even though her duty was more bodyguard than nursemaid, hadn’t yet seemed to mind watching either child. Thus far, she’d even looked to enjoy it, for the most part. She had also eaten before they’d arrived at the battlefield, saying it would be easier to pay attention to guard duties while not also being hungry. Next to Panowen was Anora, which took Malcolm by surprise. Then he saw how she kept interacting with Cáel, and understanding replaced the surprise. 

When Malcolm went to sit down, Anora smiled at him again, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he saw a hint of mischief in her eyes. “So I see you got to meet him. Good. We will speak on more official matters regarding him later, I presume. Perhaps tomorrow. Everyone will need to get rest tonight after a journey such as yours.”

As Fergus started to sit, he looked from the babe Panowen held, to Malcolm, to Anora, and back to Malcolm again. “Who did you get to meet?”

Oghren managed to answer before anyone else could, including Malcolm and an overly enthusiastic Alistair. “Little blighter had another little blighter with that witchy-type. Then she dumped the nuglet on him and the elf before taking off to parts unknown. Heh. Parts.” With that, he went back to devouring his meal.

“Really?” asked Fergus.

“Really,” said Alistair, motioning toward Cáel. “We’re uncles!”

Fergus, a grin slowly spreading on his face, abandoned his attempt at sitting to walk over and pull Malcolm into a hug. “That’s wonderful!” He let go of his foster brother and turned to Panowen. “And this is my nephew?”

“His name is Cáel.” Panowen studied Fergus for a moment, apparently seeing the same longing and wistfulness that Malcolm saw, and then asked, “Would you like to hold him?”

“Please.”

Panowen carefully deposited the infant in Fergus’ waiting arms and resumed eating her food—a little faster than before, Malcolm noticed. He really needed to take notes on her technique so he could do the same when handling Cáel. Fergus held the child with practiced ease, and Malcolm easily saw just how much Fergus missed his own son. Then, taking the cue from Panowen, Malcolm ate while he had the chance. Soon enough, Fergus relinquished Cáel, told Malcolm he’d have to explain specifics later, and then went back to his dinner, as well as discussing what had happened at Highever while the rest of them had been in Drake’s Fall.

“There are over hundred templar prisoners,” Fergus said, going back to the subject Malcolm had inadvertently brought up earlier. “That’s where Cauthrien is right now instead of meeting you lot, like the rest of us did. “She’s getting a full accounting of their numbers tonight, I believe. Or was intending to. It’ll depend on how organized she can get things.”

“I imagine she is determined to finish the organization tonight, and that is why she’s been gone so long,” said Anora. “Cauthrien cannot abide disorganization.”

“I would like to tour the camp and see the prisoners tomorrow,” said Alistair.

“As would I,” said Hildur. 

Anora turned to her. “I’ve been meaning to ask where Nathaniel is. I noticed he did not return with the rest of you.”

Hildur sighed. “Malcolm lost him.”

“I did not. He followed Morrigan to... wherever it was she went.”

“See?” said Hildur. “Lost him.”

“Arlathan,” said Lanaya, taking pity on Malcolm. She then explained, for the most part, how Morrigan had left Thedas, where she was, and how she would not be coming back for some time, possibly ever. Alistair jumped in and recounted the rest of what happened at Drake’s Fall. Teyrna Cauthrien entered halfway through the retelling, quietly sliding into a chair close to the door. Tiredness showed in how heavily she sat, along with the smudges under her eyes, yet she seemed satisfied. When Alistair acknowledged her presence, she asked him to please continue his report before she gave hers. 

Anora took the entire explanation with remarkable aplomb, understanding it all without needing to ask questions. Then she looked to Hildur again. “Will you be staying on as Warden Commander, considering Nathaniel’s disappearance?”

“I will be staying, yes. We haven’t a suitable replacement among the Wardens left to us, and the Fereldan Wardens could stand for a bit of stability when it comes to its command. I’m sure the First Warden will agree with my assessment.” Hildur folded her hands in front of her on the table, her plate already taken away by one of the servants. “What does concern me at the moment is Ferelden’s stability as a country.”

Alistair indicated for Cauthrien to answer, who stood to give her report, despite her tiredness. “Our losses were heavy, even though we caught the templars by surprise from the rear.” Oghren chuckled, and Cauthrien stopped speaking to fire a glare at him. He managed to smother his chuckles and motion for her to continue. “Between the slow recovery after the Blight, and this latest large-scale battle, our army is weak, far weaker than I or any other Fereldan would like. Our navy remains strong, but it has never been large. If we are challenged, we cannot stand, not for long. Our only hope is that the other countries in Thedas, as well as the Divine, turn to other matters and leave Ferelden alone.”

“You’d think they’d be nice to us just because we managed to stop a Blight,” said Alistair.

Malcolm sat back in his chair so he could cross his arms. “Amazing how quickly it seems to slip everyone’s mind.”

Anora turned matters back to Cauthrien. “I assume from your countenance that the prisoners’ camp is organized?”

She nodded. “Yes. We still wait on the King’s decision on what to do with the prisoners, but they are now provided with shelter, and what food we can spare. The Highever chantry was able to supply them with enough lyrium to provide for half-rations until the templars from Kinloch Hold are able to bring more. They are also quite secure and should not be able to escape into the countryside.”

“I can’t imagine them receiving a warm welcome from the resident Fereldans if they did manage to escape. Even if they made it to a chantry, I highly doubt they’d be welcome with open arms,” said Alistair.

Fergus chuckled. “Not in Highever, that’s for sure.” He considered Cauthrien for a moment, and then looked at the Wardens and Dalish seated at the table before returning to Alistair. “Do you think we could hold off any other reports and preparations until everyone’s had a good night’s rest?”

“I think that would be wise,” said Alistair.

“We do have one more issue to address before we can retire.” Anora looked over at Cáel, who was currently being held by Líadan, and then returned her gaze to Alistair. “Cáel will need a guard.”

That brought Ariane to her feet, Elin having been passed to Panowen some time ago. “I am his guard.”

“He is a prince,” said Anora, unperturbed by Ariane’s aggressive posture. “Protocol dictates that he require a Royal Guard assigned to his person.”

Ariane’s posture did not relax, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I don’t care about human protocol. The Dalish will always protect him. _I_ am his guard.”

Malcolm had assumed, in the long term, that particular job was going to fall to Líadan, but he wasn’t going to question Ariane. Not with her in this sort of mood. He liked having his head attached to his neck, thank you very much.

“You do realize you’re guarding a human, right?” asked Alistair, either oblivious or uncaring of the danger an angered Dalish presented. Líadan made several gestures with her free hand for the King to shut up, but he ignored them and plowed onward. “It isn’t like he should be that important to you.”

Ariane’s dark glare moved to the King as she crossed her arms, as if making sure she didn’t draw her weapon. “You would not understand.”

“Do you seek to replace Ariane or add an additional guard?” asked Lanaya.

 _Thank the Maker for her and her diplomacy_ , Malcolm thought.

Alistair’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Additional guard. Why would anyone want to replace such a determined guard?”

“I do not require assistance,” said Ariane.

Líadan smacked her forehead with her free hand and muttered, “And I thought I could be a pain in the ass. She wasn’t like this in Drake’s Fall. She used to be reasonable.”

“Two guards are better than one, are they not?” Lanaya asked Ariane.

For a moment, it seemed Ariane would object to even that, but she grumbled under her breath, and then relented. “You make a good argument, Keeper.”

Panowen stood. “I must get to my room and prepare for the night.” She looked to Fergus. “I assume that I will be provided a room close to Malcolm?”

Malcolm nearly laughed when he realized the Dalish never used his Fereldan title, which was entirely fine with him.

“Yes,” said Fergus. He motioned toward the seneschal, Robert, who had appeared along with Captain Somerled during the argument with Ariane. “Please make sure Panowen and Ariane are installed nearest Malcolm’s room.”

Robert nodded, and then indicated for the two Dalish women to follow him. Panowen continued carrying Elin, and Ariane attempted to pluck Cáel out of Líadan’s arms. Líadan gave her fellow Dalish a glare of her own, communicating quite clearly that _she_ was Dalish as much as Ariane, and would not be treated like Ariane wanted to treat the humans. Ariane’s expression softened just enough to seem a little apologetic to Líadan, and only then did she hand over Cáel. Lanaya seemed discomfited with how things had turned out, quickly nodded to the others, and followed the other two elves out.

When they had exited the room, Fergus turned to Líadan and asked, “Is she always like that?”

“Not from what I saw before,” she said.

Anora turned to Somerled. “Who would be best assigned to guard the prince?”

The captain squinted in thought. “Kennard, I believe, might be the best match.”

“In ability to deal with Ariane or ability to work with and guard children?”

Somerled smiled, having already caught on. “Both, Your Majesty.”

“We should just assign one of the Antivans,” said Alistair. “Baltasar would make a wonderful nursemaid, in my opinion. Also as deadly as a Dalish hunter.”

Malcolm snorted. 

“I do not think that would be appropriate,” said Anora.

“Too bad,” said Alistair. “I would’ve loved to see Ariane’s face with that one.”

Cauthrien went to reply, but a huge yawn caught her right as she opened her mouth. She blinked in surprise. “I apologize.”

Alistair waved her off. “No need to apologize. You’re exhausted. Everyone is.” He stood up. “My royal order is for everyone to relax and rest for the rest of the night. Now go.”

As if Alistair would take back his order, the Wardens quickly fled the dining all for other parts of the castle. Malcolm and Líadan escaped with them, slowly walking toward his room. Their room, he realized, with her presence there never having been questioned, not once. It was a nice change. Their belongings had already been taken to the room, and he was thrilled to see that servants had already brought up the bath and filled it with steaming water.

“Creators bless Fergus,” Líadan said. “I feel like I’m encrusted with dirt.” Then she went to her pack.

A bath. With someone else. With no interruptions. Things were looking up.

He glanced over at Líadan, who had dragged her clothing out of her pack and was studying them.

She noticed his attention. “What?”

He indicated the bath.

“Finding something clean to change into afterward will be a challenge,” she said. To emphasize, she kicked at the clothes she had scattered on the floor.

“We could make that a non-issue.”

Líadan lifted an eyebrow.

“Considering the last time we were in this room post-bath, you’d think we could possibly continue what was rudely interrupted by a dwarf who shall go unnamed,” he said.

“You know, that’s not such a bad idea.” She considered Malcolm, the tub, and slowly went back to him. “I’m game.”

He grinned, happy at her agreement, and also happy to see her more her normal self instead of how she’d been in the mountains. Yet, as soon as armor was blessedly off, and clothing following, there was a commotion outside. It started softly at first, and was easily ignored, then it quickly escalated to shouting, and judging from the accompanying noises, perhaps worse. Clothes were tossed back on before they opened the door.

They found Ariane glaring at the poor newly assigned guard, who, on his part, did a decent job of mostly masking his cower. The Royal Guard—Kennard, Malcolm remembered—glanced over at Malcolm as soon as the door opened. “Your Highness, I’m afraid I’ve not been allowed to carry out my duty.”

“It is not your duty,” Ariane said.

Malcolm held in a sigh, because he knew it would only anger Ariane further. “I thought you agreed to this earlier?”

Her glare moved straight to him. “I conceded a point to my Keeper. I did not agree to the addition of a human guard. If any of you were confused, it is not my fault.”

“It isn’t like he’ll interfere with what you need to do.” Malcolm was impressed with his ability to remain calm and thus far not frightened. He decided it had to do with lots of practice with Líadan and her temper. “You could even pretend he isn’t there.”

Ariane didn’t seem convinced, yet she didn’t object.

“You aren’t going to be his only guard,” said Líadan, taking advantage of the other woman’s silence. “His father is a Grey Warden. I agreed to be his mother, and I’m a Grey Warden, as well as a trained Dalish hunter. Panowen is no slouch in Andruil’s arts herself. He also has two mabari wardogs who would protect him with their lives. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to relent and agree to sharing your duty. It’s shared already, whether you see it or not. You can yell and protest, or you can accept it and continue to do the task Morrigan left to you.”

“When Lanaya mentioned to me that Marethari had asked you to be her First, I did not understand. I see it now.” Ariane nodded, more to herself than the others present. “Very well. I will... allow... this human guard’s presence.”

“My thanks,” said Kennard. 

“You say that now,” Malcolm said under his breath. Líadan elbowed him in the ribs.

“You stay outside and guard the door,” Ariane said to Kennard. “I will remain inside when Cáel is in the room.”

Kennard seemed about to object, even raising a hand to get Ariane’s attention.

“She’s in charge,” said Malcolm. “Do what she says.”

“Yes, ser.” After forcing a scowl from his face, Kennard took up a position to the side of Panowen’s door. Ariane nodded once at him, and then stalked into the room.

Líadan started for the room she shared with Malcolm, him following. Right before she stepped through the door, she spun to face him. “The bath will be cold.”

He frowned. Yes, yes it would be.

“Maybe you should see about getting it refilled. Also, more food.” She reached out and ran her fingers along his jaw. “And then other things.”

“On it.” Then he kissed her quickly before heading down the hallway, focused on his new mission. He found the servants first, and begged them for new bathwater, using all his charms to keep them from getting frustrated. Hauling water wasn’t exactly the easiest chore. They agreed, and then he was off to the kitchens. There, he managed to weasel a couple loaves of bread leftover from the morning’s baking, as well as a few hunks of cheese. After stuffing his haul into a small cloth sack, he picked a little-used route so he wouldn’t be delayed in returning to the room. It had been a while since it was just the two of them, and he really missed that connection, other parts of the experience aside.

Malcolm skidded to a halt when he turned the corner of the corridor to find both his brothers standing to block it. As it was, he barely kept himself from barreling straight into them. As soon as Malcolm was within their sight, they both crossed their arms.

_This can’t be good._

Malcolm did an about face, but found Fergus in the way. _Since when was he that fast?_

Said brother took him by the elbow and led him to the side of the hallway, mostly out of the way if a servant came by. Lucky for them, this was one of the least traveled routes in the keep, which wasn’t so lucky for Malcolm.

“Funny story,” said Alistair as he leaned against the stone wall with a deceptive casualness. “Here I was, talking to Lanaya about why Ariane seemed rather...”

“Prickly,” said Fergus, still blocking Malcolm’s avenue of escape.

Alistair nodded at him. “Right, prickly. Anyway, Lanaya tells me about Oisín having brought Ariane a gift—an illuminated script of a Dalish story, to be exact—essentially asking permission to bond with her. Well, he gave it to Lanaya first, who then told him to give it to Ariane, but you know what I mean.”

Malcolm went to interrupt before it got too far, but Alistair waved him off.

“No, wait, there’s more. So I’m telling Fergus about it, since he was curious as to the whys of the prickly Ariane as well, and he mentions to me about this bow you and Master Ilen happened to have made for Líadan that you gave to Fergus for safekeeping before we went to Drake’s Fall.”

Malcolm’s interruption was waved off again.

“Let me finish,” said Alistair. “Then Fergus tells me that you mentioned Ilen having given you permission for something. And there I stood, wondering what in the Maker’s creation that permission was for. Care to shed a little light on the matter?”

Malcolm then realized that it wasn’t Marethari who was the member of the Mahariel clan one would truly go to for permission to bond with Líadan—Fenarel’s actions aside—it was Master Ilen. The man himself had said Líadan’s parents had been his closest friends. And in Malcolm’s last conversation with him, Ilen’s approval had been more than clear, provided that one had been entirely open to hearing it. However, all he managed to say out loud was an inauspicious, “Um...”

“Out with it, little brother,” said Fergus.

He didn’t want to discuss it because no matter how much he might want it, it couldn’t happen. Not in the world they lived in. Not with the differences of Dalish elf and human prince. For either of them to get their hopes on it would be a setup for them to be dashed. “It doesn’t matter—”

“Yes, it does,” said Alistair. “You heard Hildur. And besides that, as your brothers, we want to see you happy.”

Fergus nodded his agreement at Alistair, and then went back to Malcolm. “And Líadan is like a sister to us now, elf or not, and we want to see her happy as well.”

“We can’t—”

“Stop saying you can’t. I’m the king of this Maker-forsaken country, which means I should be able to bend some rules _somewhere_ to make friends and family and my people happy if I can. Things between myself and Anora are turning out all right, but we all know, including her, that it could’ve gone very sour very quickly. I agreed to marry Anora partly to give you the freedom to be happy. So you need to step up and make it happen.”

“I—”

“If you say ‘can’t’ or ‘doesn’t’ or anything of that sort, I will use force, brother or no,” said Alistair.

“That’s standard for brothers, actually,” said Fergus. 

Malcolm drew a hand down his face. “Neither of you heard anything that she’s said about bonding or marrying, okay? I have. She told me that because she’s an elf, it can’t happen.”

“That’s because she’s convinced herself it can’t, just like you have,” said Fergus.

“And you said ‘can’t’ after I warned you,” said Alistair. He stepped forward, and Malcolm took a step backward to compensate for the closing distance between the two of them, but he bumped into Fergus, who hadn’t moved. “What works best on him?” Alistair asked Fergus.

“Headlock.”

Malcolm turned his head to look at his foster brother. “What? No! What are we, twelve?” He turned back to Alistair just in time to see him reaching out to employ said headlock. Malcolm tried to duck it, but Alistair had gotten too close. He grabbed Malcolm by the shoulders, sending the cloth sack with bread and cheese to the floor, twisted him around as he struggled, and brought him into the promised headlock. “Come on, this is ridiculous,” Malcolm said as he pulled at Alistair’s arms. If he really wanted to escape, he was fairly certain he could, but it would require a force that would hurt one or both of them. It wouldn’t do to have the king and his brother walking around bruised and bloodied.

Then again, if this went on for long enough, it might be worth it. He clawed at Alistair’s arms again, and then tried to maneuver his shoulder for leverage. 

Alistair adjusted his grip, negating any advances Malcolm made. “Nope, I know that trick. Look, all you have to do is agree to ask Líadan to bond with you. You know what? I won’t even demand you do that—just give her the bow.” He managed to sound magnanimous as he gave a concession that wasn’t even a real concession.

“Giving her the bow _is_ asking her to bond with me. Nice try.”

“Well, that’s the goal, in case you haven’t caught on,” said Fergus. “I bet Keeper Lanaya would even agree to perform the ceremony if we asked.”

“Doesn’t matter, because I’m _not asking_ ,” said Malcolm. He wouldn’t do that to them. Her words on the matter that she’d spoken to him in the Planasene Forest had been very clear. _Human. Dalish. Not possible._ He repeated what she’d said to his brothers. “So there’s no point.”

Alistair huffed. “You’re an idiot if you think that opinion still stands. If you were in the Planasene like you said, then she hadn’t even visited her clan yet. None of the stuff that happened afterward—telling them the Wardens are her clan, letting her clan know she was with you, turning down that other elf, what was his name?”

“Fenarel,” said Malcolm, and just saying the name set his teeth on edge.

“Right, Fenarel. Anyway, all that stuff happened after. And Master Ilen would’ve had to have given you the bow sometime in that mess. When did he give it to you?”

“Toward the end of the visit.” Malcolm figured if he kept answering questions, he could use the conversation as a distraction to get himself out of Alistair’s grip. He carefully changed the positioning of his feet in preparation to try to throw his brother, hopefully without hurting him. Much.

“So, after he found out about you and Líadan,” said Fergus.

“Technically, I suppose. But he’d figured it out on his own before that. And had it confirmed when I admitted to his face that I loved her.” Maker, he’d been convinced Ilen would kill him for just _saying_ that, but the man had found it amusing instead.

“And he didn’t kill you?” asked Alistair.

“Actually, he did. He totally did and I’m undead and walking around and everything.” With that, Malcolm shifted his weight and went for the throw. He managed to tip both of them off balance, sending them tumbling to the floor. They rolled and jumped to their feet, but before Malcolm could get a breath, Alistair tackled him. Then, to add insult to injury, he sat on him to keep him from getting up or struggling. 

“This’ll do,” said Alistair. “You’re too squirmy, otherwise.”

Malcolm lifted his head to glare at Alistair. “I hate you.”

“If only you’d admitted I was taller.”

“You _aren’t_ taller. I do think you’re heavier, though. All that fancy food at the palace, I think. Oof.”

Alistair ruffled his hair. “Aw, look at you all grumpy in your little no-win situation.”

Footsteps sounded on the paving stones down the hall. “Company,” said Fergus.

“They can gawk all they want,” said Alistair, pretending to make himself comfortable from his seat on Malcolm’s chest. “I’m not moving until he gives in.”

The footsteps grew louder, and then they all heard a sigh. The sigh was followed by a brief silence, and then footsteps walking away. Malcolm, craning his head upward as far as it could go, was able to make out Anora’s form. Damn. She might have saved him. He frowned. Or helped his brothers. There was no telling with her at times.

“All right, Malcolm,” said Alistair. “You can capitulate anytime now.”

“Nice word. You learn that in the Chantry?” Malcolm asked.

“No changing the subject. And yes, I did. But this is about you. Well, you and Líadan. Anyway. You promise to ask her sometime soon and I’ll let you up.”

Soon? Soon could be made subjective, Malcolm was sure of it. “Okay.”

Alistair started getting up, but Fergus said, “Wait! Wait. He’s wily. You need to be more specific with the time frame or he’ll just redefine the word ‘soon’ to suit him.” That sent Alistair right back down, trapping Malcolm once again.

“And they say _I’m_ a bastard,” Malcolm said to Fergus.

Alistair grumbled. “Come on, this is stupid. Just agree to ask. Besides, Morrigan asked her to be a mother to your son, and she agreed to it. She isn’t going anywhere. She really doesn’t have a reason to say no.”

Fergus sighed, and his countenance became somewhat serious. “She really asked that of her? And she agreed?”

“Without any argument at all,” said Alistair.

Malcolm let his head drop back to the floor, wincing a bit when it smacked softly against the stone. “How are you two so convinced that she’ll agree to it when she’s told me otherwise?” He wished he felt the same conviction they did. If he knew it wasn’t hopeless for either of them, he would ask. But after seeing the turmoil before she’d visited her clan, it didn’t seem wise.

Alistair shrugged. “We have our sources. So are you going to agree, or is this going to be an all night thing? Because I’d like to go spend some time with my wife, believe it or not. It’s been a while.”

“What? I don’t want to hear about that! Keep that to yourself. You’re my brother and Anora is like a sister and ugh. I will never get those images out of my head.”

“You may have stumbled on a way to break him, Alistair,” said Fergus.

“Oh?” Alistair’s eyes lit up. “I suppose I could go on. I mean it’s been ages since—”

“Stop! Stop! All right, I’ll do it. There. You happy?”

Alistair didn’t budge. “Need a when. You know what, I’ll tell you when—if you haven’t asked within the next three days, we’ll have another little chat like this. And for that chat, we’ll bring Oghren and Sten. Oh, and maybe we can get Wynne. She’ll just guilt you into it.”

“Fine.”

“We want your word,” said Fergus.

Malcolm muttered a few invectives under his breath. Fergus knew him far too well. “You have my word. Now can you please let me up? Breathing is starting to become difficult.”

Fergus nodded. “The bow is in the cupboard in my study. Key’s in my desk drawer.”

Alistair, now smiling, jumped up, and then helped Malcolm to his feet. “Glad to see you came to your senses.” Then he noticed the sack that’d gotten knocked out of Malcolm’s hand and picked it up. “Cheese!” he said when he opened it. “I’ll take this.” He gave Malcolm a pat on the shoulder. “Have a good night.” With that, he and Fergus strolled away, leaving Malcolm to stare after them.


	5. Chapter 5

“‘I am the beginning and the end. I am luckbinder, spellweaver, and the keeper of secrets. And I am here to build a kingdom. I am Aldenon the Wise, and if you haven’t heard of me yet—never can you say the same again.’ His voice boomed, silencing all. His magic was potent and the hall gave him a wary look. Tenedor accepted him as his advisor that day. Then, when Tenedor the Younger rose to his father’s seat, he took Aldenon into service as well. I sat with the mage in many councils and although his magecraft was greater than even the Tevinter magisters, many believed his advice to be folly. He had little appreciation for the hard truths of our lands, they said.” ****

— _from The Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

By the time he escaped his brothers, told Gunnar to guard outside his door and make sure no one enter unless it was a dire emergency, plain kept Revas out, and made it back into his room, the water had long since gone cold. Líadan had found a clean linen shirt, and having taken advantage of the hot bath without him, had settled on the bed with a book Lanaya had given her. He was surprised that she hadn’t fallen asleep. The nap she’d taken in Lanaya’s aravel as they’d traveled early in the day must’ve helped, he guessed. 

When Malcolm shut the door behind him, she looked up. “What happened to you?”

“I was waylaid.” Because he wasn’t going to ask tonight and he really didn’t want to have make up a reason as to why his brothers had chosen to give him a beat down in the hallway. She would see through any falsehood, and that would make things much worse.

“Brigands in the corridors again?”

“Might as well be. Alistair robbed me of our food.” Relief surged through him. She wasn’t truly angry or upset.

“Not very kingly of him.”

“I’ve yet to see him be kingly. I’m starting to think it’s all a sham.” Malcolm was highly aware of the dirt on his skin and clothes, especially since he could smell how clean Líadan was from where he stood just inside the door. He looked forlornly at the cold bath, unwilling to summon the servants for a third time, and yet dreading the cold water. Then he remembered that Líadan was a mage. “Do me a favor?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Not sure if I should. You’re the one who brought up sharing a bath, and then you didn’t show.”

“Not on purpose.” His brothers meant well, he knew, but he was going to kill them anyway.

“Mmm. We’ve had this discussion before, I believe. Something about excusing yourself when you had a pretty girl waiting in your bed? I’m sure Alistair would understand.”

“Technically, you were waiting in the bath.”

She laughed, yet still did not close her book. “You say things like that and then expect a favor?”

“Asked, not expected! And you don’t even know what it is yet.”

Líadan tapped one of her fingers on her book. “I gather you’d prefer not to have a cold bath.”

“Not unless I need one.” He paused. “Do I need one?”

The book snapped shut and she smiled—oh, he loved that particular smile. “No. But...” She glanced at the tub. “I don’t think I can reheat it. I mean, I couldn’t even manage the spell Morrigan used to keep herself warm, and I think warming the water would be along those same lines.”

He sighed. “Damn.”

“I’ll warm you up after, when you don’t smell like you rolled around in a halla pen.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said as he started shucking his clothes, hoping the interruptions were over for the night. Depending on how cold the bath water was now, it could even be considered a life or death situation. Smalls off, he plunged himself fully in the bath, dunking his head under the water as he did.

The cold stole the air from his lungs, making him gasp when he brought his head out. “Holy Maker! Did you turn it into ice when you were done and it only melted just before I walked in?”

All he heard from the bed was a fit of giggles.

Right. She apparently _had_ done something like that. “You’re mean, you know that?” He reached for one of the scrubbing rags and a clump of soap, and commenced cleaning his skin as fast as he could, wanting out of the icy water as soon as humanly possible.

More laughter.

“I’m glad you think this is funny. You can make it cold but not heat it up. How useless is that?” His skin scrubbed clean, he ran the soap over his scalp, steeled himself, and submerged his head once more to rinse it off.

“Doesn’t seem useless to me. I don’t know about you, but I’m highly entertained.”

He was tempted to run back to Fergus and Alistair to renege on his promise. He could be facing a lifetime of this sort of thing. Then again, making it official wouldn’t change the fact that he’d already chosen this life, practical jokes or not.

“Oh, come on. Don’t sulk. It’s unbecoming,” she said from somewhere behind him, and not on the bed anymore. “And it makes you a poor sport.” She sounded even closer the second time.

“We wouldn’t want that,” he said. “It would make me like Fenarel.” Someone, he clearly remembered, Líadan wouldn’t bond with. Or anything else with, for that matter. At least he was finally clean, if incredibly cold.

“And I wouldn’t get to warm you up afterward if you had a hot bath.” Closer still. Possibly within—he reached behind him, snagged her by the arms, and pulled her in. Advantage of noble households, he supposed, was how big some of the bath tubs were.

She yelled when she hit the water, her eyes wide in shock that he’d caught her by surprise, and at how cold the water was. “You—” And she was speechless.

Victory. He couldn’t hold in his laughter, the advantage now his because he was slightly used to the temperature while she was still in shock from it. 

Líadan pulled at her soaked shirt, which had become pretty much see-through, Malcolm noticed. “This was the last clean shirt I had. The last one. You’re awful.”

“You started it. And I’m sure there are clean shirts in the wardrobe. There were last time we were here.” Okay, the shirt—rather, what was under it—was becoming really distracting. If he didn’t stop staring, he would quickly lose his advantage in the situation. 

Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“That might—what are you looking at?”

He grinned. “Everything.”

“What?”

He pointed at her shirt. “Not much left to the imagination.”

She scowled, covered her chest with one arm, grabbed the side of the tub with the other, and started to stand up. Malcolm grasped the wrist of the hand holding the tub, and then reached out behind her neck with the other, pulled her closer, and kissed her. She resisted for a moment out of surprise, and then relaxed into it, bringing her arm around to cup the back of his head as she deepened the kiss. When she dropped back into the water, her breath caught, making her break away from him. “We are not continuing this in here. It’s freezing.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” he asked as he watched her climb out of the tub.

She threw him a white linen for drying, and then got one for herself after she struggled out of the soaked shirt. “Yours. You took forever. You’re lucky that—” She yawned, and then opened her eyes wide as if to counteract it. “You’re lucky that I didn’t fall asleep while you were gone.”

Taking the hint, he got out and quickly dried himself off with the linen. Then he hopped straight into the bed.

Líadan frowned at him. “Presumptuous, aren’t we?”

“You aren’t wearing anything.” And he knew the frown was playful. Mostly. “ _And_ you said continue. I heard you. Also. No clothing. Really distracting.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the smile at the corners of her mouth before she joined him. He sat up and pulled her close again, picking up right where they’d left off in the water, except without the inhibiting cold. “Thank you,” she said quietly when he pulled away from her lips to find another place to kiss.

“For?” He went for the spot just below her ear.

A light moan interrupted what he assumed was her reply. “You’re making it hard to concentrate.”

“Really? That’s what you’re thanking me for?” A bit strange, but he accepted it, and then moved downward to the tattoo at the hollow of her throat.

She growled in frustration and shifted, taking him inside her. Well, she certainly had his full attention now. All of it. Everywhere. “For staying,” she said. His hips rocked involuntarily—it really _had_ been a while—and a gasp interrupted her words. “For not going with Morrigan. For staying here,” she managed to say after a few moments. 

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you. I meant it.” This time, she moved her hips first, and he really began to understand how frustrating it was to have the other person breaking your concentration when you were trying to say something serious. At this rate, neither one of them were going to last very long, and this serious conversation would be longer than what accompanied it.

“I believed in your belief. I just—” Another moan.

All right, so that one was on purpose. He dropped his hand to bring her along faster. “You just—” And it was his turn to moan when she nipped him in that spot near his shoulder. “You just what?”

“I guess I had to see it to believe it for myself.” She cupped both his cheeks in her hands and pressed her forehead against his. “To let myself hope.” Her breathing changed, becoming shallow and fast, and he knew she was close.

“I love you.” He wanted to prove it, wishing for a feasible way to do so, still unsure if his brothers’ idea was a real solution. Maybe he could just repeat it enough times, stay with her long enough, never leave her behind, and his commitment would be proven to her. “I love you,” he said again, because he couldn’t bring himself to say, to ask, what he really wanted to. He kissed her through her gasping as he brought her over the edge, and then he followed her.

For the first time, she fell asleep before he did, only staying awake a few minutes longer after they disentangled. It brought the concern he’d managed to ignore roaring back to the front of his mind. He put his arm around her and listened to her steady breathing as she slept, hoping that she was all right.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

Malcolm woke up before Líadan, and even managed to clean up and get dressed before he heard another commotion out in the hall. He went to investigate, and both dogs followed at his heels. Outside, he found Ariane and Kennard once again facing off, this time with actual weapons drawn. Maker’s breath, but this was ridiculous. “Are you intending to have a duel in the corridor?” Malcolm asked.

At least Kennard had the decency to look abashed. Ariane merely looked annoyed at being interrupted before she could battle the human into submission. 

“I apologize, Your Highness,” said Kennard, “but the elves have informed me that they will be going to the Dalish camp for the day. And I am not welcome to join them.”

A human that wasn’t well known to the Dalish not being allowed in their camp wasn’t unusual. “This caused you to draw your weapon on them?”

“I couldn’t let them leave with the prince. It’s my duty to guard him.”

“It’s _my_ duty to guard him, shem,” said Ariane.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Also not like Ariane. Oisín’s proposal really had thrown her off her game. Best not irritate her more than Kennard had already done. “Kennard, you’re just to be Cáel’s guard in human areas—that means pretty much everywhere except for what belongs to the Dalish. Besides, Cáel will be _incredibly_ well-guarded in the Ra’asiel’s camp. I daresay he’s far safer there than in any human city in Ferelden, possibly even in all of Thedas.”

“But, Captain Somerled told me—”

“Don’t worry about him,” said Malcolm. “I’ll take the blame. Just find something to keep yourself occupied around here until they get back to the castle. Then you can go back to sharing, because you’re both so good at it.”

Kennard stared at him a moment, nodded and said, “Ser,” before exiting the family quarters.

“Thank you,” said Ariane.

“You’re welcome,” Malcolm said. “But you really could stand to be a teeny-tiny bit less abrasive. Just a little. At least keep weapons sheathed until there’s an actual assassin or direct threat? If you really want to fight him, challenge him to a match in the sparring ring. Less death that way.”

“He does make a good point,” Panowen said as she exited her room, carrying both Elin and Cáel, Elin in a sling on her front, Cáel in a sling on her back. 

Ariane made a face, but made no other reply.

Malcolm grinned when he saw Cáel, and quickly stepped over to touch him and run his hand over the boy’s downy hair. Luckily, he was already awake, so Panowen wouldn’t have his hide for waking the infant.

“We do need to get going,” Panowen said after a moment.

He sighed, kissed his son on the top of his head, and then watched the women leave. He was sad to realize that Panowen—and by extension, Cáel—would be away all day. Those few seconds would be all he saw of his son for the day, and depending on how late they were and when Cáel fell asleep, the night as well. 

They needed to find a better arrangement.

When he stepped back into the room, Líadan hadn’t so much as stirred. Yes, this was starting to get worrisome, because he hadn’t even bothered to try being quiet. He grabbed a book from the small collection of three in the room—the one he’d inadvertently picked being the story of Calenhad—and sat down in the chair near the bed. Then he tried to read as he waited for her to wake up. 

As soon as she opened her eyes, he asked, “How did that chat go with Lanaya?”

She blinked several times, opened one eye, closed it, and then opened both eyes. “Good morning to you, too.”

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “Good morning.” He straightened in the chair. “How did it go?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask me that last night for how you’re all persistent about it this morning.” She looked like she was going to say something else, but a yawn interrupted her, and then she elected to run her fingers through her tangled hair instead.

“You were naked. Hard to remember other things when you are.”

She gave him a half smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then she sighed and sat up, keeping the quilt around her. “She told me there’s to be an _arlathvhen_ in Halamshiral in autumn. The Mahariel aren’t going, which didn’t surprise me, but did take her by surprise before I’d told her what was going on with the clan, especially with them refusing to leave Sundermount. Then she asked if I would go to the _arlathvhen_ as the Mahariel clan’s representative so they would have a voice. Or at least someone to ask to send them some halla and a First.”

That would certainly make her flustered, but would have nothing to do with her tiredness. She was telling him something of what was bothering her though, so he’d take what he could get. “And?”

“And... I said I’d think about it. For one, it’s in Orlais, which makes me nervous. Two, I’m not really of the Mahariel anymore. I’m a Grey Warden. If I told the clan I couldn’t be their First because I was a Warden now, I shouldn’t be their representative at the _arlathvhen_ , even if they wouldn’t have one otherwise. As strange and unnerving as it is that they won’t go, it _is_ their choice. It wouldn’t be my place to override it.”

He tapped his lips with his finger. “That sounds a lot like a ‘no’ to me.”

She gave him a weary, yet amused look. “They really do need halla and a First.”

“But they don’t need you to ask for them. I’m sure one of the Ra’asiel can be convinced to ask, right? I bet even Lanaya would understand and ask for them once you explained your position on not going. Or you could go as a representative of the Dalish Grey Wardens, though that’d probably require some coordinating with all the other Dalish in the Order.”

“It’s a possibility.” Líadan sat back against the headboard. “Not something I want to think about organizing right now.”

“Well, you could get up and get ready. There’s breakfast, and then there’s a trip out to the prisoner camp. Hildur is going with Alistair, and she mentioned something yesterday about conscription. I think that’d be fun to see.”

“Oh, that does sound fun.” Then she practically bounced out of bed.

The prisoner camp was quieter than Malcolm expected. He figured it had to do with most of the templars he could see praying or reciting the Chant either in hastily constructed fenced-in areas, under guard, or on cots lined up with wounded. Messengers had been sent to Kinloch Hold, asking for healers to help, but they’d yet to appear. Unless they arrived soon—if they arrived at all, considering they were being asked to heal templars—there would be more casualties. Despite attempts at cleanliness to ward off illness, the camp still smelled; it was unescapable. 

Beyond the camp, the battlefield had finally been cleared of bodies, and pyres burned brightly. The Revered Mother in Highever had agreed to help with proper rituals for the templars. Malcolm agreed. Even if he didn’t like the templars, they did deserve proper funerals. He still regretted that Astrid had never received one, as far as he knew. Perhaps there was something he could see about. Hildur would know.

Alistair, Anora, Fergus, and Cauthrien took the tour slowly, speaking in low tones of what to do regarding Ferelden’s safety, as well as deciding what exactly to do with the almost two hundred templar prisoners of war. Sending them all back to the Divine would be foolhardy. Despite losing a vast number of templars in the battle, two hundred strong would be a good foundation to rebuilding the order in Orlais. Not something they wanted to see with such a weakened Ferelden.

Malcolm mostly paid attention, but he was still unsure of what his place would be since his assignment to find Morrigan was over. He was still an active Warden, and with Hildur almost officially assigned as Ferelden’s Warden Commander, he would also revert to being an official Fereldan Warden, as would Líadan and the rest of the Wardens who’d traveled with him. The thought actually made him feel better, even if his future position was uncertain, especially with Cáel. Whom, he realized, he didn’t see nearly as much as he thought he would. With him needing Panowen in order to eat, and Panowen having her own duties within the Ra’asiel clan, she spent most of her days out with the Dalish. It bothered him that he was already missing out on this much of his son’s life, after he’d already missed the first three months. But until they found a wet nurse who didn’t have duties elsewhere, there wasn’t much that could be done. 

“All right, you lot are moving far too slow for my liking,” Hildur said to Alistair and his group. “I’m going to go scout ahead and figure out what we’ve got here.”

“Templars, I thought,” said Alistair as Hildur walked away, telling Malcolm and Líadan to follow her.

She handed Malcolm a bit of parchment, a dwarven quill that didn’t need an inkwell—which only solidified his opinion that the dwarves were geniuses—and told him he’d be recording which templars she wanted as Wardens. “You can write, since you were raised in the nobility. Líadan can as well, having been educated by the Dalish. Most of the soldiers we get aren’t literate, which can be a problem sometimes. Maybe I should recruit a teacher or something to fix that. Anyway, templars are also handily literate, so finding even a few willing recruits would be to our great benefit.”

He couldn’t disagree. With the amount of research they had to do to find Old Gods and talking darkspawn, plus reports and messages, reading and writing was a fairly necessary ability. And a Chantry education was actually a very good one, sometimes rivaling the education of the children of lesser nobles.

Before Hildur began her search, Malcolm reminded her of the lyrium issue. Not just that they had to consider the lyrium addiction in general in regards to templars, but also how long the templar had been taking the lyrium. The less time they’d been exposed, the better the chance to wean them from it without killing them.

Hildur didn’t look thrilled about the additional limitation. “It isn’t like finding ones who will survive the Joining isn’t difficult enough.” She sighed. “Fine.”

Most of the templars were surly enough about being stuck in Ferelden that Hildur skipped right over them and their glaring. There were a couple who asked for asylum as soon as they saw anyone looking vaguely official, and she immediately added them to the list she had Malcolm keeping. “They want to be here,” she said, and then winked at the other two Wardens. “They make easier recruits.”

“Challenging is more fun,” said Malcolm.

“Also tiring. I’ve got too much to do already to deal with reluctant Wardens. Especially reluctant Wardens who can interfere with my mages.”

Líadan frowned. “What mages?”

Hildur stopped and considered. “You. And... oh, this could be problematic. It’s just you. And you really don’t count. No offense.”

She scoffed. “Like I’d even take offense. I can’t even heal. Without Anders, Velanna, or Fiona, you might need to pay a visit to that mage prison and steal a few.”

“Prison for—oh, you mean Kinloch Hold. Yes, I believe there’s a visit in the near future. Pretty risky for a country’s Wardens to be without even a healer. Wynne’s volunteered her services in the meantime, but I’d rather not have her as our only choice if we need to go into the Deep Roads. Plus, there’s the Joining potion to consider. Can you make it?”

Líadan shook her head. “I could try, but that could also be disastrous.”

“The Joining is deadly enough, we don’t need to add to it. All right, mage recruiting it is after all this. Let’s go get some more templars first, shall we?” Hildur resumed her fast pace through the camp, her practiced eyes allowing her to quickly assess who would be good recruits, who wouldn’t agree to being recruited, and who wanted to be, but would have a high probability of dying in the Joining.

Malcolm caught sight of a familiar looking templar as they walked through the field hospital section of the camp and skidded to a halt to peer closely at the cot. The mustache—he’d recognize it anywhere. “Knight-Commander Thierry? Is that you?”

Líadan went to grab Hildur and bring her back.

The templar slowly sat up, as if still suffering from aches and pains and possibly some non-fatal wounds, which was possible considering the shortage of healers. “Actually, it’s Knight-Captain, now, Your Highness,” he said, eyes lighting in recognition of Malcolm. “I was demoted when I returned to Orlais after the debacle here. I had hoped to be reassigned to a small chantry, but the Divine still saw fit to put me in charge of a company that was sent with the templars marching on Highever—I was very reluctant, but I wasn’t given much choice. The other option was to be sent to Kirkwall’s Circle.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow on hearing that. If even templars didn’t want to go to Kirkwall, choosing to march to war and possible death in battle instead, the situation there had to be far worse than he’d thought. “That’s too bad,” said Malcolm. “It’s always the decent templars who get put down by their higher-ups, it seems.”

Thierry noticed Líadan as she and Hildur drew up next to Malcolm, and gave her a small smile. “Warden Líadan. Good to see you haven’t become an abomination.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know if I should be offended.” Then she looked over at Malcolm and Hildur, as if to get their opinions on the matter. “He did say it was good, but since templars hate abominations—granted, no one really likes abominations—I’m not sure if that was a compliment or just a general statement.”

“I’m new to this ‘not being in the Chantry’s service’ thing,” said Thierry, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “You must excuse me. It was meant as a compliment to your strength of will as a mage.”

“Oh. Well, then.” She paused. “Thank you.” She turned to go, and then stopped. “Wait, what do you mean ‘not being in service to the Chantry’ thing?”

“I’m going to ask King Alistair for asylum. I think I’ve had enough of the Divine’s policies. She’s lost sight of what the Chantry should be concentrating on, and my speaking of it is heresy, if I am not mistaken. Though part of me wants to say that to her face after all that’s happened.”

Hildur motioned for Malcolm to add him to the list. “I want him.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said, “but we seem to be losing Wardens as quickly as we get them.”

“You don’t think you should at least ask him first?”

She sighed, informing them she thought it unnecessary, and then turned to Thierry. “What do you think about becoming a Grey Warden? Your Chantry couldn’t even think about touching you if you did. With asylum, they could still get their hands on you again. As a Warden, you’re out of their reach. Forever.”

He stroked his mustache. “You Wardens have seemed reasonable thus far, and have shown impressive restraint during very tense moments, for the most part.” He glanced at Líadan.

“Benoit was asking for it,” she said. 

“Yes, he was. And I may have been silently encouraging the Wardens to carry out their threat and toss him into the Deep Roads—it would have saved me many a headache.” Thierry nodded, slapped his hands on his thighs, and stood. “All right. Not really any other options for me, anyway. I’ll do it.”

“What about the length of time he’s been on lyrium?” Malcolm asked Hildur.

She tapped her chin. “Good point.” Then she asked Thierry, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Is that so? Huh. If you’re just thirty-five, how is it that you were already Knight-Commander of Orlais?”

Thierry shrugged and a sheepish smile appeared on his face. “The Divine used to like me. Or my mustache, I was never quite sure. She did once request that I not shave it.”

Malcolm had to admit it was a pretty impressive and flowing mustache. “I wonder if the request she made was the Maker’s will.”

“I wasn’t about to test it, so the mustache remained.”

Hildur grinned. “Let’s go tell Alistair about all the shiny new Warden recruits I’ve got.” Then she took off for where the King’s party had ended up on the other side of the camp.

“You all right with this?” Malcolm asked Líadan as they walked behind Hildur.

She shrugged. “He’s okay. I would’ve objected to someone like Benoit, but Thierry seemed to have a very reasonable outlook. Besides, if any of the recruits turn out anything like Benoit, Thierry would be a good influence on them. Or help us wrestle them into submission before we toss them in the Deep Roads.”

He chuckled. Then he remembered his own brothers wrestling him into certain promises the night before and held in a sigh. He’d have to get that bow and somehow come up with the stones, as Oghren would say, to ask. After what she’d said last night, maybe it wasn’t out of the question. Possibly. Maker, facing the Archdemon again would be easier. 

When they got within sight of Alistair’s almost-retinue, they noticed Wynne had joined them, most likely to give a report of the state of the field hospital. Hildur patiently waited for Alistair to finish his conversation with Cauthrien before saying to him, “Knight-Commander Thierry is among the templar prisoners.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He seemed genuinely disappointed. “Aw, too bad. I’d hoped he’d been assigned to a quiet chantry in the country after that Harrowing mess. As templars go, he didn’t seem a bad sort.”

She nodded. “And what are you going to do with the prisoners?”

“Most, we’ll remand to the Chantry. They were soldiers following lawful orders, as much as we might disagree with said orders. As for others, some templars don’t even want to be in the order. I certainly didn’t. I’m thinking about offering asylum for those ones. There are a few who committed crimes on their march from Gherlen’s Pass, so they’ll be tried at the King’s Court.” He peered curiously down at the Warden Commander. “Why do you ask?”

“I might want to recruit a few. Templars come in handy when facing emissaries.”

“Very true.” He rubbed at the scruff on his chin as he mulled over it. “You’d have to wean them off the lyrium, or it could get incredibly expensive. You also wouldn’t want any of the templars who hate mages or are afraid of mages, but you probably knew that.” Alistair nodded, more to himself than Hildur. “All right, recruit whatever templars you think would do.”

She smiled up at him. “I already did.”

He regarded her for a moment before returning the smile. “Nice of you to maintain the illusion that I’m in charge.”

“Anything for you, Your Majesty,” she said, then darted off to begin her tasks for recruitment.

The rest of them began their return to the castle, which was now practically swarming with contracted surface dwarves and their crews as reconstruction started. Alistair fell back to walk with Malcolm when Wynne asked for Líadan to walk with her and chat. As they got closer to the castle, Alistair slowed, causing them to fall behind the others, leaving them outside after the rest passed through the barbican.

“What?” Malcolm asked. “Obviously you have something to say.”

“Just reminding you about your promise.”

He scowled. “I don’t need a reminder.”

“I think you do. Fergus told me the bow is still in his study.”

“I haven’t had a chance to fetch it.” Malcolm didn’t meet the level look his brother gave him. Instead, he pretended to study the castle’s reconstruction process.

“You could just bring her with you.”

He raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Because that’s romantic?”

“More romantic than avoiding the issue altogether. Besides, you’re talking to a man who proposed to his future wife in a _letter_. Anything you do has to be better than that.”

“You may have a point. However—” Malcolm stopped when he saw Oghren walk under the barbican and head straight for them.

Once within talking distance, Oghren said to them, “Cousland wants to see you two in his study. Wants to give the little blighter some sort of gift. I don’t know. Oh, and something about a message for the pike-twirler. He flashed it at me, looked pretty official.”

They made their way to Fergus’ study immediately, with Oghren following. Alistair noticed. “Why are you coming?”

“I came and sodding fetched you, the least you could do is let me in on what’s in that letter.”

“Could be state secrets. What if you tell the Orlesians?”

“Because I give a nug’s arse about surface politics?”

“Good point. All right, fine.”

Once in Fergus’ study, the teyrn wordlessly handed Malcolm the case that contained the bow. Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Fergus, but said nothing. Fergus had apparently learned very well from Teyrna Eleanor about wielding guilt like a weapon.

“What’s that?” asked Oghren.

“A case,” said Malcolm.

“I know _that,_ ” said Oghren. “I haven’t had that many flagons yet. What’s in the sodding thing?”

Malcolm declined to answer. Oghren had been the first person to tell him to bond with Líadan, so he really didn’t want Oghren in on the mounting pressure from Fergus and Alistair.

Fergus, however, had other ideas. “It’s a bonding gift for Líadan, that’s what it is.”

“You serious?”

Fergus nodded, and Oghren turned to Malcolm. “What are you waiting for? The next Blight? How long you had that?”

Malcolm still didn’t answer, which turned out not to be a problem because Alistair answered for him. “Since they visited Sundermount. Easily a month or more, I believe.”

“Closer to two, actually,” said Fergus. “Maybe three.”

Oghren gave Malcolm a disbelieving look. “Did you leave your stones on that mountain? Drop them in the ocean or something?”

“Doesn’t Alistair have a letter to open that you’re dying to know what it says?” Malcolm asked.

“Eh. This is better. Also more important. You need to make things right for the elf, or old Oghren will... well, it would require a visit to Orzammar because the surface lacks the necessary amount of lava, but that can be arranged.”

Alistair sat in one of the chairs next to the desk, cracked open the wax seal on the letter, and started to read as Oghren continued to explain to Malcolm exactly what he would do if he didn’t find his stones. Then Alistair practically jumped in his chair, making Oghren stop his incredibly involved threats, and look toward the King. “What?”

Fergus, sitting in the chair behind his desk, said, “I admit, I’m also curious as to what would cause that reaction.”

“The Divine is going to visit Ferelden in order to give an official apology for the march on Highever since it seems the maleficar Morrigan was not in the country at the time,” Alistair said as he continued to stare at the letter.

“Really?” asked Fergus. 

Malcolm frowned. “This visit... is it with or without an army of templars at her back?”

Alistair folded up the letter and tapped a corner against one of his hands. “I’m fairly certain it’s without. They’ve got to be pretty low on Orlesian templars, and I doubt templars from any country except Orlais would agree to march on us under a flimsy pretext. Unless the Divine calls an Exalted March, I think we’re in the clear.”

“I wonder what the odds are for an Exalted March on Ferelden,” said Fergus.

The mention of possible gambling got Oghren’s attention. “I’d say seventy thirty on a march. That’s what the pool is at, anyway. Want in?”

Malcolm was almost tempted. If he bet on the march, it might even influence the odds in the other direction.

“No, we don’t,” said Alistair. “And they don’t have a reason—even a weak one—to march on us right now. Morrigan is gone. Ferelden is otherwise in good standing with the Chantry. We’d have to rebel against them, commit some sort of heresy, for them to march. We’ll probably have to toe the line of Chantry law for a while, but I think we’ll be fine.”

Malcolm held up the bow’s case. “And yet you advocate me bonding with a known mage? Also a marriage outside the Chantry that you would know about?”

Alistair shifted in his seat, hands drawing together on the desk to fidget. “I figured there’d be some sort of Chantry ceremony after the Dalish one. Maybe not straight after. Perhaps when you’re in Denerim. Hildur mentioned assigning you to run the compound there, both because you’ve got the ability and seniority at this point to do so, and so that you and Cáel will be close to the palace. Technically, at the palace, since the compound is attached. Anyway, not just a Dalish ceremony, right?”

“You really think the Landsmeet will stand for that? We’re already going to be asking a lot from both them and the Chantry in trying to get Cáel legitimized. I doubt we could push them more. A mage and an elf marrying the King’s brother? They wouldn’t stand for it.”

“I’m not so certain,” said Fergus. “I mean, with Cáel, for instance, it would give them an heir who isn’t a Warden, and in case anything happens to you and Alistair, it far lessens the chance of civil war. Taking into account the current state of the country, I believe most of the nobles will leap at the chance of a more secure line of succession. As for you and Líadan, I think you underestimate how well-liked you both are. I think it could work if you made concessions. They’ll probably request she not be made a princess. However, since the leader of the Elven Quarter in Denerim is a bann, she could be given a courtesy title. It would be strange for the wife of a prince to be without any title at all. Mostly, they’ll be worried about the two of you having children, and therefore, knowingly having elf-blooded humans in line for the throne. So they’ll request that any possible children of yours and Líadan’s be excluded from the line of succession.”

“But we can’t have children,” said Malcolm, “so that would be pointless.”

“Right, but they don’t know that. That’s at least one decently kept Warden secret,” said Alistair, who then glanced over at Fergus. “Provided you continue to keep that to yourself.”

“Of course I will.” Fergus considered the papers on his desk for a moment before asking Alistair, “How will you explain you and Anora if you don’t have any heirs?”

“Well, it isn’t a near-impossible task for us since Anora and I aren’t both Wardens. And I haven’t been a Warden for a terribly long time, so there’s a decent chance. At least, that’s what Hildur tells me. She said under five years since the Joining and a non-Warden partner has about a one in four-ish chance based on Weisshaupt records. And those records are just on reported children, and we all know that there could be a decent amount of illegitimate children of Wardens running around that even the Wardens who fathered them don’t know about.” He sighed. “Anora and I decided that if we have no heirs after a decade that she would take the blame for the lack of issue since she and Cailan failed to have children as well.”

“That won’t be pleasant for her,” said Fergus. “The nobility will be quite unhappy, no matter how good a queen she is.”

“Part of why we’re hoping the odds will fall in our favor at least once.” Alistair looked at Malcolm. “And even without you directly saying so, I know how much you don’t want the throne falling to Cáel. I assume Líadan feels the same way, and since she’s basically his mother, her opinion should be counted as well. See, there’s another thing. If she’s going to be your son’s mother, it would be very awkward for her not to be married to you, at least to most of Ferelden.”

Malcolm sighed. “Look, even if we pull an approval from the Landsmeet for me to marry a mage, there’s still the Chantry to consider. Especially if we have to be strict about Chantry laws to avoid an Exalted March.”

“I’ll figure something out,” said Alistair. “Anora might have an idea or two. She’s smart like that.” Alistair’s eyes became pained. “Leliana would’ve known what to do for navigating the Chantry. Too bad she isn’t around to help.”

“Then Anora wouldn’t be...” Malcolm frowned at his brother. “I thought you were really getting along with her? Liking her? Maybe even starting to love her?”

“I am! I mean, we are and I do and... you know what I mean. She’s the present, and I don’t want to change that, but I do remember sometimes, what I had once. It does get a mite confusing occasionally, but then I get over it. I cherish what we had, but that isn’t my life any longer. You know, like you and Morrigan, except your ex is technically alive, if entirely out of reach. She even gave you a son, and yet you still chose Líadan over her.”

Malcolm shifted in his chair, more uncomfortable than before. “We both chose.”

“In the end, yes, but you made that choice before you even caught up with Morrigan. She, however, I don’t think had entirely committed to that decision until she handed Cáel over to you.”

Malcolm couldn’t rightly argue. He’d taken notice of the same when he’d first spoken to Morrigan in Drake’s Fall. He nodded his agreement, but kept his silence.

“In fact,” said Alistair, “had you pushed the issue, I believe she would have eventually agreed for you to go with her.”

“We both would’ve ended up miserable.” Malcolm also knew what his brother said was true. Morrigan had mostly chosen, but the walls of an absolute decision had yet to fully appear. If he had pushed... but he hadn’t. His place wasn’t with her. His future wasn’t with her, and he’d known it in entirety perhaps before she had accepted it. “She would’ve found me to be an intruder on her work, and I would’ve missed Líadan, missed everyone. Probably even missed Morrigan because she would’ve grown to resent my unnecessary presence.”

“You know, I’m very happy that neither of us is in Nathaniel’s shoes. Imagine the earful he must be getting?” Alistair shuddered for effect. “ _Maker_.”

“Told you, that boy’s got some stones,” said Oghren, who then pointed at Malcolm. “Stones you need to find so you can make things right with the elf. And if you don’t, you’re going to have a problem with Oghren.”

“You have made that abundantly clear,” said Malcolm.

“So stop sitting on your arse and do something about it.” He looked pointedly at the door.

“Right now?”

“Can you think of a better time?” Before Malcolm could answer, Oghren said, “No, you can’t. So get going.”

Malcolm actually found himself starting to stand up.

“As inspiring and effective as your threats are, Oghren, Líadan isn’t in the castle. She went down to Highever with Lanaya to look for a new nurse for Cáel,” said Fergus. “I think Wynne went with them as well.”

“When she gets back,” Oghren said to Malcolm. “No later. Or I’ll force you to eat a barrel of pickled nug, and that’s just for starters.”

He took a breath and released it. “All right.”


	6. Chapter 6

“It is hard to tell our children about those of our people who have decided to live in the shemlen’s cities. They ask, ‘Why would anyone want to be treated like that?’ And sometimes I do not know what to say. I do not understand it myself. They were freed, but they have returned to live in the service of their former masters. They are housed like animals in walled sections of the shemlen’s cities. They do the meanest of tasks and are rewarded with nothing. Why? I do not know.” ****

— _as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish_

**Líadan**

****“Fergus mentioned to me this morning about you and Malcolm searching for a new wet nurse for Cáel so that Panowen may return permanently to her clan,” Wynne said as they strode into Highever Castle’s yard.

“Also so that we can both see Cáel for more than brief moments in the evening,” Líadan said. “Panowen has much to do with her clan and cannot stay in the castle much except during the night. Since Cáel relies on her for food, that means we don’t see much of him. It isn’t a situation that either of us likes.”

Wynne considered her for a moment. “So Fergus told me the truth.”

“Why would Fergus tell a lie?” Líadan paused and thought that one over. “All right, why would Fergus tell a lie to _you_?” Malcolm and Alistair, she’d learned, were fair game.

“It was a curious circumstance that I wasn’t sure if he’d misheard or not. I didn’t mean to imply that the teyrn would lie for the fun of it. Perhaps inadvertently, at worst. I was... surprised that you had agreed to Morrigan’s request.”

Líadan had been surprised as well, especially in how readily she agreed. She’d noticed Cáel right away, held as he was in Panowen’s arms as she approached the Keeper’s fire. Without realizing it, she’d set her books aside and stood, and the other women with her had done the same.

_“This is Cáel,” said Morrigan. “He is my son.”_

_“The one with the Old God’s soul?”_

_“No. My other son possesses the ancient soul. His father was the assassin. This child, he has a soul of his own, and his father is not the assassin.”_

_“He’s Malcolm’s.” Saying the words hurt, to realize Morrigan had given Malcolm what she never could—due to either her choices as a Dalish, or the effect of the taint on a Warden._

_“Yes. And if you would accept it, I would like Cáel to be your son.”_

_The request brought Líadan’s attention from the child to Morrigan.“What?”_

_“He cannot go with me. He will need a mother, and I cannot be that for him. You can. If you are to... stay... with Malcolm as you are, it makes sense. And you are perhaps the only one I can trust to be his mother.”_

_“He’s your son, you don’t have to leave him here—”_

_“I must. There is no other way. Please, do this for me.” Morrigan paused and glanced back at Malcolm. “And if you cannot do it for me, do it for him.”_

_Líadan saw in Morrigan’s eyes how difficult this was for her. Not just the part about leaving her son here with his father, but asking another woman to care for the both of them. She was handing over what could have been her family in order to complete the task she’d set out to do at the beginning of the Blight. Though it pained her to make the choice, she would not deviate from what was more important to her than the love of a child, or of a lover. “I...” Líadan struggled to find her answer. Somehow, Morrigan had always felt the threat, even if she’d never meant to be. And now for her to agree to care for Malcolm’s child by Morrigan as her own stood a chance of making her question, every day, if she were a mere placeholder. But that was her irrational, emotional side speaking. Intellectually, and rationally, she knew Malcolm had made his choice._

_“Hold him first. That may help you decide, as it made my own decision all the more difficult.” Morrigan motioned to Panowen, and the other elf handed Cáel to Líadan._

_The boy was warm and heavy, and it took Líadan all of an instant to decide. “All right.”_

_“For now,” said Morrigan, a grateful smile threatening to cross her face, “he is as much my son as yours. But once I have gone, you are his mother, and no one else. I may have birthed him, but he is yours. Please, care for him as such.”_

_Líadan saw the vulnerability quavering just below the surface of Morrigan’s expression. It was something she saw very rarely when they had traveled together during the Blight, something that Malcolm had repeatedly insisted did indeed exist, but Líadan hadn’t completely believed until now. “I give you my word that I will,” she said._

_And when Morrigan disappeared through the eluvian to Arlathan, Líadan had a son._

“It was the right thing to do,” she said to Wynne. “And, it seemed, the only thing to do. Before all that had happened near the end of the Blight, Morrigan had been near a sister to me. For a while afterward, I resented her. Hated her, maybe, for what she’d done. But that was before I understood what was at stake for her. I really can’t begin to explain what Flemeth is or how exactly Morrigan is threatened by her, but Morrigan’s task to find a way to defeat Flemeth is more important to her than anything. Anything. And she will sacrifice what she has to in order to carry through, no matter how much it hurts her to do so. I can’t say I would do the same, but I can understand it.”

“So Cáel truly is yours.”

“Yes.” Though she didn’t see enough of him, and whatever time she had with him, she kept fighting the tiredness that wouldn’t seem to let go of her body. 

Wynne nodded to herself, and then smiled warmly at Líadan. “I think he will be in good hands, with both you and Malcolm.”

“I hope so.” When she had agreed to what Morrigan asked, she hadn’t really comprehended the task of _raising_ a child and all it entailed. Especially raising a child in the environment of the human nobility, outside of a Dalish clan, where child rearing was a task taken by the entire clan, not just the immediate family. They didn’t quite need nursemaids and other personnel to help care for a child. It was just automatically shared, with the older of the clan watching the young ones and infants, the wisdom of their years a great asset in that task. Now Líadan found herself without the help of those elders, without the help of her parents—though she had no idea what they would say about her raising a human child as her own—or even grandparents. Her parents were dead, Fiona was dead, Flemeth was not an option at all, Malcolm’s foster mother was dead—they had no one, aside from each other and members of their generation. There was Líadan’s own grandfather, but with him a Keeper of another clan, as well as having not seen or spoken to her since her parents had died, he was as much as gone to them, as well. 

She looked sidelong at the human woman walking next to her, and realized that Wynne might be the only elder they had as a resource. She had taken care of the children at Kinloch Hold, and had even birthed a child of her own, though the infant had been immediately taken from her.

“Now,” said Wynne, her tone becoming more businesslike, “the reason why I brought up the wet nurse situation is because Cáel has always had an elven wet nurse, has he not?”

“That’s what Panowen explained to me. Morrigan purposely did not feed him herself in an attempt to keep from bonding with him as a mother. According to Panowen, and from what I and everyone else witnessed, it was a useless attempt. Morrigan did bond with him, and it made parting with him that much harder for her.”

Wynne shook her head, as if still not believing the things Morrigan did—she often brought out that reaction in people. “Then Cáel should continue to have an elven wet nurse. His body is used to that nutrition, and to change it before he’s half a year old could be troublesome for him. I thought I would tell you that, as a healer, before you went searching.”

“That’s helpful, actually.” She frowned. “And also lessens the amount of appropriate nurses.”

“Fergus also told me that he may have inadvertently found a possibility for a nurse with the widow of the smith who died during the battle.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “Fergus told you a lot of things.”

Wynne mirrored the look. “It was this morning over breakfast, when you were still asleep, young lady. Very unlike you.”

“It was a tiring time up in Drake’s Fall.” The excuse sounded weak even to Líadan’s ears, but she had no inclination to speak to anyone about her exhaustion. Not yet. She was still able to do everything required of her, so it wasn’t urgent. She assumed, for the most part, that the constant journeying of the past half year had tired her more than she thought it would. Nothing to be concerned about, no matter what Malcolm and Alistair insisted.

“Are you sure that’s all? You could have picked up an illness during your travels. It wouldn’t hurt to have—”

“I’m fine. I’ll recover my energy and be back to my normal self soon enough.” She didn’t mention how sick she’d been on the ship from Ayesleigh. Maybe that had contributed to the exhaustion as well.

“If you say so, dear.”

Líadan narrowed her eyes at her friend. She knew an ‘I think you’re wrong’ when she heard it, but arguing was pointless. The only thing that would convince Wynne otherwise would be to get better. So she would. In her own time. “Did Fergus give you any specifics about this widow? I assume she’s an elf?”

“Yes. She had been helping with the refugees streaming in from the countryside and was trampled when a crowd panicked at seeing the rampaging dragon, her infant with her. She lived, but the child died from her injuries. The elder in the Highever Alienage had been looking after her, and she only regained consciousness yesterday. Fergus asked me to see to her, if she needed a healer, and if they would allow me to help. He also wanted me to see if you wanted to go down with me and meet her. I believe her name is Nuala Tabris, if I recall correctly.”

“It would be helpful to have you there. I really don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m looking for to make a good nurse.” Líadan frowned, feeling a pang of guilt over the widow’s plight. “So she lost her child and her husband in the dragon’s rampage?”

Wynne nodded, her expression grave. “Yes. Perhaps a new job will give her something else to focus on, as long as caring for an infant doesn’t remind her of the one she lost.”

“This is very different from how it works in a Dalish clan,” said Líadan. “If a woman could not feed her newborn, either because her duties as a hunter were too extensive, or her milk didn’t come in, there was always someone available to help, without question. They were just there, no searching required. Like how Panowen agreed to help Morrigan, though I’m surprised she agreed that readily, given that Morrigan is a human. But the Ra’asiel clan has always been a little different, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Human society still takes you by surprise?”

“All the time.”

“Yet you do seem more at ease as of late.”

Líadan gave Wynne a small smile. “I’ve gotten better at hiding my surprise.”

“When we go to Highever, would it help to have the Keeper with us? She also may know more of the health required for an elf to be a nurse.”

“You know, it probably would. She might agree to help if she isn’t busy with other duties. I could go check right now—do you want to come with me?”

Wynne gave her a pat on the arm. “No, these old bones need a good rest before we walk down. I’ve spent much of my time in the field hospital, including the time I was there this morning. We received word that the healers from the Circle should arrive by midday, and so I have some time to rest. Please come fetch me once you and Lanaya are ready to depart.” After waiting for a nod from Líadan, Wynne strode into the castle.

Líadan went around the large structure, heading for the back of the walled area, close to the sea cliffs. Which, she realized, was her favorite place at Highever, for more than the obvious reason. The hunters assigned to guard the camp greeted her warmly as she passed between them. Once in the camp, she sighted the Keeper’s central fire, but could not see the Keeper. Most likely, Lanaya was helping someone else and would eventually appear. She was pleased to at least have the chance of holding entire conversations in Elvish once again. 

The Ra’asiel had even seen fit to set out the statues of the _elvhen_ gods; she had noticed that as soon as she approached. Enjoying the feeling of being in a proper Dalish camp, she closed her eyes and listened. Unlike at the Mahariel camp at Sundermount, she could hear the bleating of the halla in their pen, and she could not feel a thin or sundered Veil to the Beyond. It felt far more like the childhood home she had once known. At the same time, it still did not feel entirely like home. 

Even in a typical Dalish camp, her decision to accept the Wardens as her clan remained certain. Still, it felt nice to hear and see and smell the memories of her childhood, before the templars, before the Blight, before the Wardens, when things had been simple. When she had expected to become a hunter and live by the Charge of Andruil, to bond with another elf, either of her clan or another they met at an _Arlathvhen_ , to have elven children, raise them, and one day take her place as an elder. That future was gone, and not without some mourning, but at least the memories of those departed days were comforting.

Líadan opened her eyes, remembering that Panowen and Ariane were here with Cáel. She hadn’t seen her son since last night. She wondered just how long it would take until calling him that wouldn’t feel so strange, but she couldn’t deny the connection she felt and had slowly been building since they’d left the shattered eluvian. She missed him, and was somehow surprised to discover it, despite the connection. The more she thought about it, the more she missed him, and so she went searching.

She found him with the elders who watched over the clan’s children, just as she had explained to Wynne a short time ago. Panowen and Ariane were there, but they were dressed for a hunt, which explained why they were with the elders. Panowen smiled at Líadan when she saw her, and then said, “Fergus gave us permission to hunt as much as we want in his forests. We are low on fresh game, so both Ariane and I are going with the other hunters because we’re two of the best ones. I know you understand that your son is safe with the elders.”

 _Fergus was certainly productive this morning,_ Líadan thought, and then she returned Panowen’s smile. “I know. It’s a familiar way.” Part of her yearned to join them in the hunt, but the other, stronger part wished to spend what time she could with Cáel. “It warms me to see it once again.”

Ariane tilted her head, studying Cáel for a moment. “Why do you not return? Your Grey Wardens are not at war.”

“They are my clan now. I cannot leave them, much as I never wanted to leave the clan of my birth.”

“And you have accepted this?” Unlike Fenarel, Ariane’s questions were truly out of curiosity, with no ulterior motive evidenced in her tone.

“Yes, though it did not come easily, nor quickly.” Then she saw Cáel in the arms of one of the elders and smiled at him. He returned the smile, and something in her chest twinged at the sight.

“I understand,” said Ariane. “You also have your son to raise with your bondmate. You could not leave them.”

“He is not my bondmate,” Líadan said, a little too quickly. “But you are right, I could not leave him, or my son.”

The elder carrying Cáel did not seem disturbed at the idea of Líadan raising the boy, or of her having a human who could be mistaken as a bondmate, instead bestowing a warm, approving smile of a kind only an elder could give. Then she handed the boy to Líadan before turning to chase after the little ones who had discovered walking. The child was warm and soft and clung to her, sometimes pushing himself out with his arms, using her chest for leverage so that he could look around at everything. He had a certain smell to him, one Líadan had not realized infants had—clearly, she had not spent enough time with the younger children in her clan. The more she continued to hold him, the less she wanted to relinquish him to return to her duties, and because he needed to stay near Panowen in case he needed to be fed.

Panowen must have noticed Líadan’s wistful expression. “He’s just eaten,” she said. “He will be fine for at least three hours, perhaps four. His time between feedings has lengthened as he’s grown. And if I have not returned within four hours, depending on how the hunt goes, there are two other mothers here who have said they will be able to provide for him.”

Líadan saw Panowen’s words for what they were: an acknowledgement, and a blessing to care for Cáel. “Thank you.”

“It is our way,” said Panowen. “And yours. It always will be.” Then she turned to Ariane. “We should start the hunt as soon as possible. The Keeper has given us our blessing.” She nodded to the elders, and then to Líadan. “Excuse us.”

 _So that’s where Lanaya was_. She glanced over at the central fire to see Lanaya had returned and had seated herself on a bench, a few baskets around her as she busied herself with making what looked like poultices. Líadan said farewell to the elders and headed over. 

Keeper Lanaya looked up as soon as Líadan reached the fire. “I see that you found your son.”

“It wasn’t like he was lost. He is only caught between the needs of the Dalish and the needs of his Warden clan.”

“That is so.” Lanaya set aside the herbs in her hands. “Have you any success in finding a new nurse for him? Panowen is not resentful of her task at all. However, it is not good for Cáel to spend so much time separated from his parents.” She gave Líadan a pointed look. “It is also not good for his parents.”

“I know. Wynne told me this morning of a possibility in Highever’s alienage and volunteered to go with me to investigate. She recommended that you accompany us, as well, since you’d know best the suitability of an elven nurse.”

“A fine idea.” Lanaya stood gracefully, reminding Líadan of the Keepers and Firsts she had known throughout her life, but in a good way. “I would like to go. I came to the Dalish at a very young age, but I’ve always retained my curiosity about the world I came from.”

“You were born in the city? Not among the Dalish?” Lanaya not being born Dalish shocked her. Not only did she seem quintessentially Dalish, but she had been a First, and then had become Keeper when Zathrian died. That was unheard of for a city elf who joined the Dalish. They were welcome, of course, but their lineage to Arlathan couldn’t be traced. Most, if not all, of the Dalish who possessed the gift were descended from Arlathan’s noble houses. In fact, the names of the noble houses had become the names of the Dalish clans. 

“My parents were servants to a human merchant whose caravans plied the southern routes. One day, bandits killed him and my parents both. I was the only survivor, just a young girl, and the bandits took me. I was their...” Lanaya’s gaze drifted into memory before she blinked out of it and continued. “...servant for several years. I can only imagine what would have happened if the clan had not saved me from them. I owed them my life for that. And more.”

Líadan knew that if she or any of the Mahariel hunters had stumbled on human bandits keeping an elven child as a pet, bloodshed would’ve been instantaneous. “Did hunters find you with the bandits?”

“Not hunters, no. The bandits killed a scout when the clan passed near their camp. When the clan discovered him, Zathrian went looking for his killers. He followed their tracks for almost a month, and when he finally caught up with us, he fell on the bandits like a terror. I sat there and watched him attack them in a blur and I reveled in every blow. When he saw me, the fury in his eyes turned to pity. He took me back to the clan and I have been with the Ra’asiel ever since.”

“What Zathrian did sounds much like what would’ve happened if my own clan had found the same.” Líadan gave the Keeper a half-smile. “They very nearly killed Malcolm and his brother and the rest of their party during the Blight. They’d found my unconscious body, almost overtaken by the Blight sickness, in the Brecilian Forest. They were in the process of bringing me to their healer when my clan’s hunters found them. I was told that it was only the quick words of their healer that allowed them to live. And once Keeper Marethari discovered they were Grey Wardens, they were perfectly safe. Fenarel still hasn’t forgiven them, though. He blames them for my becoming a Warden.”

“From what I understand of the taint, Fenarel should thank them for keeping you from dying.”

“Believe me, he’s been told. He won’t hear it.” Líadan paused, not wanting to continue to speak of Fenarel. “Do you know which alienage you came from?”

“No. I cannot remember, nor can I even remember if I had any other relatives. As a Keeper, it would do me well to visit an alienage so that I do not forget where I came from, and where some our brethren continue to live. It’s a Keeper’s job to remember.”

Líadan nodded. “I know.” Then she playfully narrowed her eyes at Lanaya. “I distinctly remember that Keepers never forget _anything_.”

That brought a laugh from Lanaya. “The children of my clan think much the same.”

“You’re lucky your magic didn’t show until after you were with the Dalish,” said Líadan, voicing her realization as she thought of it. “Otherwise, you would have been sent to the human Circle of Magi if it had appeared before the bandit attack. I hesitate to even think of what the bandits would have done.”

“That is part of what else I owe to the clan. They taught me that magic is a gift, not a curse. I never would have known otherwise.”

“In that, at least, you were fortunate.” Líadan knew the time Lanaya had spent with the bandits was decidedly not. Probably best to change the subject at this point. She cleared her throat. “Wynne is waiting in the castle. She asked that we pick her up whenever we decided to go into the city.”

“Now works perfectly.” Lanaya glanced at the stave leaning against her aravel. “Would it be necessary to bring—”

“No, I don’t think so. I won’t have mine. I doubt Wynne will bring hers, unless she needs a walking stick.” Líadan adjusted her hold on Cáel. “I’ll go bring him back to the elders.”

Lanaya raised an eyebrow. “You are not bringing him with us? We are looking for a nurse for him, are we not?”

She wanted to bring Cáel, but she knew the reality of the situation. “I’ve been in alienages, and the response to a Dalish elf carrying a human child into one would not be positive. I also don’t know how long everything will take and we don’t want him getting overly hungry.”

“Your second point is valid. As for your first, do you not think it is something you should get used to?”

“I know it is.” Líadan rested her cheek on top of the boy’s head. “I am his mother. I think that makes me even more afraid of prejudice from both elves and humans because of it. They will not know that he is entirely human and will assume that he is elf-blooded. The record of treatment from both sides isn’t a pleasant one.” She sighed. “I suppose I wanted to avoid facing it whenever possible.”

Lanaya said nothing. Instead, she placed a finger on her lips as she carefully studied Líadan.

“What?” Even Líadan was more than a little startled at how quickly she became defensive when the other Dalish hadn’t yet said a word necessitating it.

“You don’t see.”

“See? See what? If you’re going to start _really_ acting like Marethari and begin speaking in riddles, I can just go down to Highever myself. I’m not in the mood for riddles. You figure out how to speak plainly; I’m going to bring Cáel to the elders.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked Cáel to the other side of the camp. The elders greeted them warmly, and wished Sylaise’s blessings upon her when she left. 

She found Keeper Lanaya waiting for her at the entrance to the camp. Admittedly, Líadan was surprised. She’d figured after what she’d said that Lanaya would elect not to go. Well, there were worse things to be wrong about, she supposed, as long as Lanaya was done with the riddles. If not, she could probably run faster than the other woman.

The Keeper said nothing as the two of them left the camp on the edge of Highever’s defenses. They walked alongside the high stone wall that formed the castle’s outer perimeter, still a fair distance from the castle’s main keep. Líadan kept her mind on their reason for going into the city, wondering how you even asked someone to be a wet nurse for your child. She supposed she could follow her own advice and ask plainly, but that would be awkward. More than awkward. Especially since the woman they were considering asking had so very recently lost her own child, as well as her husband. 

“You said you wished for me to speak plainly,” said Lanaya.

“Preferably. I grew up with Marethari’s riddles, and they had only gotten worse when I last saw her at Sundermount.”

“How long ago was that?”

Líadan squinted as she calculated time and distance in her head. They’d traveled from Sundermount up to the Arlathan Forest and that’d taken nearly a month. There’d been the week between the start of the forest to the White Spire and then the port of Ayesleigh. Most of a week on the ship to Ostwick, and another week from Ostwick to Drake’s Fall. “Two months, maybe three, give or take. It’s been hard to keep track. Why?”

“I have not been to Sundermount. How thin is the Veil there?”

She gave the Keeper a sidelong glance, thinking this was awfully close to being riddle-like, but held her tongue on the matter. “So thin you can practically see the Beyond. In some places, the Veil is entirely gone and spirits walk freely, angry and confused. Magic is different there, as well.” She shivered. “There really was something unworldly in that place. I can’t imagine spending any more time there than I already did, and the Mahariel have been there since the end of the Blight.”

“And there are things that could happen there when they otherwise could not?”

Líadan glared at her this time. “ _That_ was a riddle.”

“It was a question.”

“Being a question is an inherent part of being a riddle.” When Lanaya didn’t respond—being very much a _Keeper_ —Líadan sighed. “Yes. Why?” Her thoughts when to the demon she had encountered in the cave of skulls, and to Anders, whom they’d thought possibly possessed, but had not found out for certain before he’d left them all. She wondered where he was, and if he was okay. He’d been a good man and a good friend.

“Because I believe something of that nature has happened to you. Something that you believed so strongly could not happen that you will not see that it has.”

“Not a question,” said Líadan, “yet reminiscent of a riddle. Are you talking about my relationship with Malcolm? Is that what this is about? You could have just asked. I went through all the painful evasive ‘in a relationship with a human’ stuff with the Mahariel, and they were my birth clan, so you haven’t much on them in terms of me feeling any guilt.”

“Not entirely.” Lanaya paused, and then asked, “You wish me to continue speaking plainly?”

“I’d argue that you haven’t yet started, but yes. Please do.”

“You are with child. Close to three months along. I believe your being on Sundermount may have had something to do with it, considering you are a Warden. I had to ask your Warden Commander about its possibility, given that Morrigan once told me of Wardens and their infertility due to the taint.”

Líadan stumbled and halted to stare at Lanaya. “That... what... That was—I’m a Grey Warden. We aren’t supposed to be able to have children.” That was why it was okay for her to be with Malcolm and not betray her people. She could no more pass the Gift onto an elven child than an elf-blooded child if she could bear no child of her own. The hard-won acceptance of her life for what it was began to fade, and she struggled to recover it.

“Did you not see the signs? Perhaps you did, yet your belief in what you were told of Grey Wardens kept you from seeing. What did you think was causing your exhaustion?”

Right. She could concentrate on things that were real and could actually happen. “Travel. We traveled for a long time since the end of winter. All over Thedas. And then there were the days I was sick on the ship—which was seasickness, mind you—where Anders refused to help me like he had before, and I didn’t want to ask Oisín for his help and—” She paused, what Lanaya was saying coming together, realizing now why Oisín had come to dislike Malcolm. “Oisín knew then, didn’t he? When he helped with the seasickness?”

“Yes. He told me of it when he returned, and of the argument he had with your Warden healer, Anders. The revelation had troubled him, because he knew you were involved with a human, and that you carried the gift of magic in your line. He was... disappointed that it would not continue through you among the _elvhen_.”

Líadan looked away, feeling the same as Oisín, and several other things besides. Her stomach roiled at the revelation, at what it would mean. If it turned out to be true, she could pass on the Gift—but to a human, and forever lost to the _elvhen_. “I can’t say I blame him.”

Lanaya took Líadan’s hand and squeezed it. “I told him as I once said to you: some things go beyond human and _elvhen_. This, I believe, is one of them. You do not see, but you will in time.” The Keeper then moved forward, pulling Líadan gently by the hand. “Come. We will go to Highever and find a nurse for your son. Think on this later.”

She wasn’t sure how she could think of anything else. When she reached for the certainty she’d found on Sundermount after speaking with Sten and the confrontation with Fenarel, she found it missing.


	7. Chapter 7

_“_ We tell the children that the  _elvhen_ are strong, that we are a proud people, but they hear of these city elves who choose to toil under the humans’ heavy hand. How do we teach them pride when they know there are others who would allow themselves to be trampled into the dust? So we tell them that these city elves are to be pitied, that they have given up on their people, given up their heritage. We tell them that some people are so used to being controlled that, when freed, they know not what to do with themselves. They are weak and afraid—afraid of the unfamiliar, afraid of our life of wandering. Above all, they are afraid even to hope that one day we may have a home of our own.” ****

— _as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish_

**Líadan**

****When the two Dalish elves walked into the Highever Alienage, they drew stares immediately. While Líadan had known the trip wouldn’t be the most comfortable, she hadn’t quite realized how very awkward it would feel. Wynne’s presence may have mitigated the impact of two Dalish elves visiting an alienage, but she had been asleep when they stopped at the keep, and they had not had the heart to wake her.

Beside Líadan, Lanaya studied the alienage’s buildings, buildings that were in better repair than in what had been Denerim’s alienage before the walls had come down. Then Lanaya caught sight of the _vhenadahl_ and headed straight for it. On reaching it, her fingers gently touched the painted bark. 

“That’s the _vhenadahl_ ,” Líadan said. 

“I do remember a giant tree,” said Lanaya.

Out of the corner of her eye, Líadan noticed the city elves stepping closer and regarding Lanaya almost reverently. She wondered why, because the last time she’d been in an alienage, they’d looked at her warily. Then again, she wasn’t a Keeper, had still called the city elves flat-ears, and hadn’t yet dropped the habit of referring to humans as shems. The Líadan from two years ago seemed like an entirely different person. _That_ Líadan would never have considered a human as a partner, and never would have found herself in the situation she was now in, carrying his—right, time to think about something else. That subject made her heart beat far too erratically to be healthy.

“Do you remember anything else?” she quietly asked Lanaya, keenly aware of the approaching residents. Their conversation wouldn’t be private for much longer, if it was even private at all. “Because I’m not sure where to start, or who would be in charge. In Denerim, things are different. It’s the Elven Quarter, not an alienage, and they have a bann, Shianni. Here, I’m not sure. Fergus hasn’t implemented the changes yet. Apparently, a little dragon attack and a pitched battle with templars got in the way.”

“I believe there is someone in charge. I think they use an Elvish term, but I cannot recall what it was.”

“Oh, I remember,” said Líadan. “They have a _hahren._ There was one in Denerim, when we stopped Loghain’s slavers during the Blight. Can’t remember his name, though. And it wouldn’t matter here since it’s a different alienage. Perhaps we should have asked for a guide.”

“Excuse me,” one of the elves who had gotten close enough said to Lanaya. “Are you a Keeper?”

“I am,” said Lanaya, withdrawing her hand from the _vhenadahl_. “ _Andaran atish’an._ I am Lanaya, Keeper of the Ra’asiel clan. Why do you ask?”

Líadan realized that Lanaya was _far_ nicer to city elves than Velanna. Lanaya’s tone was patient and kind, whereas Velanna’s would’ve been harsh and more than faintly accusatory. 

“Most of us have never meet a Dalish Keeper before, only heard of them. What brings you to our alienage?”

“We wish to speak with your _hahren_ , if that is possible,” said Lanaya.

“What need do the Dalish have of our _hahren_?” asked another. 

Líadan, who had not felt claustrophobic in the alienage before, began to feel the wooden buildings pressing in on them. The walls seemed to close in and grow higher the longer they stood there in the middle of the crowd of city elves. While some had remained almost reverent of Lanaya, others had grown wary, much as the Denerim alienage had been during the Blight. She had assumed Fergus had good relations with Highever’s alienage, but without Malcolm there, they would only see two Dalish elves who deigned to visit the flat-ears. Despite all their advances, the type of Dalish Velanna had been was still the image city-dwelling elves commonly carried of their Dalish cousins. Líadan had assumed they would know who she was and there would not be a problem. The humans were by and large not bothered by her presence, aided by the fact that she’d helped in the Blight. The city elves in Denerim also were not hostile. Usually, they were even friendly. Then again, she’d helped remove slavers from their alienage, so there was some gratitude involved, as well.

“Why do you seem hostile?” asked Lanaya. “Have you or yours been wronged by the Dalish in some way?”

The woman scowled. “My friend and I were once castigated by one of you Dalish in Amaranthine. Out of nowhere! We had just mentioned noticing two Dalish elves with the Grey Wardens, and she took such offense. We even tried to apologize, but that offended her even more. You think you’re better than we are, and you don’t hesitate to show it.”

 _Creators_. Velanna. Líadan remembered the scene quite well. She looked over at the woman who had been speaking with Lanaya. “Do you not remember the other Dalish elf pulling the first one away and yelling at her for yelling at you?”

“I had forgotten. The anger of the first Dalish was so strong, and the memory of her is so clear,” said the woman. “How did you know?”

“Because I was the one who yelled at Velanna after she yelled at you. Now may we please speak with your _hahren_?”

“That is Líadan, the Grey Warden,” a man told the woman who’d objected. “Remember? She’s the one who keeps company with Prince Malcolm.”

It took all of Líadan’s will not to cover her face with her hands. Creators take her, this was worse than when she’d returned to the Mahariel. 

The woman looked over Líadan with a critical eye. “You live with humans. Does that not make you a flat-ear and not a high and mighty Dalish?”

“I am Dalish,” said Líadan, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “And I am a Grey Warden.”

“But you left the Dalish, and you never joined the elves in the city. Have you thrown away being elven? I’ve heard what’s said in Denerim about you and the prince. How you are his—”

Líadan couldn’t believe it. City elves were judging her more for her choice than the Dalish ever had. She would not stand for it. There was treating others politely, and there was allowing yourself to be trampled. “If you say what I think you’re going to say—”

“Companion?” said an older, gray haired woman who walked out of a nearby tenement. “Perhaps bondmate? I believe that is the term the Dalish use.” She looked over at the woman whom Líadan had been about to put in her place. “Am I right, Elatha?”

The woman, Elatha, bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Of course, _hahren_.”

Líadan wasn’t convinced, and her temper was fraying in ways it hadn’t since when she’d almost constantly argued Velanna. “We’re done here,” she said to Lanaya, and then turned to leave.

Lanaya snagged her wrist as she spun, pulling her to a sudden halt. “We came here for your son. He is more important than injured pride.”

She forced down sharp indignation. She was not Velanna. “I can find someone to help care for him elsewhere.” Líadan did her best to ignore how even more attentive the crowd had become on hearing Lanaya’s words. They would assume things, assume the wrong things, and the air of acrimony clinging to them would turn even more aggressive.

“Are you talking about the boy Prince Malcolm returned from Drake’s Fall with? I heard it was the Witch of the Wilds who bore his son,” someone said.

“I promised Morrigan that I would care for him as my own,” said Líadan, giving the other elf a look asking for him to challenge her choice. “I gave her my word—as a Dalish.” When he said nothing, Líadan looked toward Elatha. “Would you like to judge that as well? Or have you run dry of judgement for the day?”

“This is not going as planned,” said Lanaya.

“I suspect not,” said the woman the others had called _hahren_. “My name is Sarethia. I am the _hahren_ of this alienage. I heard from inside that you are a Keeper. I take it you are from the clan camped near the castle?”

“ _Abelas,_ I am sorry for the turmoil we have caused. I am Lanaya, Keeper of the Ra’asiel clan. We wished to ask for your help and thus far have encountered... difficulty. I did not know what kind of greeting we would receive from our city-dwelling brethren, but I did not expect this—”

“Judgement?” asked Líadan. “Hostility? Acrimony? Resentment? Things with which the _Dalish_ are usually associated?”

“You are unfamiliar with requesting help, I see,” Sarethia said to her.

It took every ounce of will Líadan possessed to keep her arms at her sides and relaxed; she would not cross them and appear defensive, nor would she make her hands into fists and appear aggressive. “I do not wish to request help from a people who feel such aversion toward people like me.” In fact, she did not wish to be here at all. She was ignoring every instinct she had to flee, both from this alienage and from the situation at large.

“You mean elves who would rather be human?” asked someone Líadan could not see. “Traitors?”

That was it. She would not stand for these strangers to call her something even her birth clan did not. Líadan went to step forward to look for whoever had said such a thing, but Lanaya, who had not let go of her wrist, stopped her once more.

Before Lanaya could say anything, another woman pushed through the crowd to reach where Sarethia, Líadan, and Lanaya stood. Elatha had disappeared when attention had moved away from her. “I think you speak too harshly, Ímair,” the woman said to the man, calmly tucking back a strand of brown hair that had fallen out of place in her struggle with the crowd. “Líadan is a Grey Warden, one who helped end the Blight. One who helped rid Denerim’s alienage of slavers. My cousin has told me more than once how well-regarded she is among the elves in Denerim.”

The man called Ímair didn’t look terribly impressed. “This isn’t Denerim.”

“I never would have guessed,” said Líadan, somewhat aware that she was now actively antagonizing the people antagonizing her, but she’d gone past the point of caring. She was still very much of a mind to leave, but Lanaya had yet to relinquish her grasp on Líadan’s wrist. “I don’t think we’ll find any help here,” she said to the Keeper, who did not seem determined, nor inclined, to leave.

“We have yet to ask,” said Lanaya. 

“They answered before we even had the chance.”

“Not all of them.” Lanaya gently let go of Líadan’s wrist, and then turned to Sarethia. “May we speak with you?”

Sarethia bowed her head for a brief moment. “You already are. Ask whatever question you have. Perhaps the answer will be different than you expect.”

Líadan felt naked under the eyes of the audience present. Making the request was already going to be difficult enough in private, but to ask in front of almost the entire alienage? Even in a close-knit Dalish camp, things were not done this way. You did not humiliate someone requesting help. You did not treat guests in this way, as long as they were of the People. It was, she decided, more than she could bear. Before she had even started shifting her weight to walk out, Lanaya’s hand shot out once more and grabbed her by the wrist. 

She decided that she really hated Keepers. Also, that Keepers shouldn’t have reflexes like a hunter’s. It was unnatural and inconvenient. She turned her glare on Lanaya, who remained unperturbed at the other Dalish elf’s anger. Líadan recognized that the Keeper would not relent—they got a particular look when they decided on something, and got another particular glint to their eyes when they decided they would not change their minds. Líadan sighed and said to Sarethia, “We are looking for Nuala Tabris.” There was a brief pause in the cadence of statement, the split-second where she had difficulty calling this uncooperative city elf the same as she called the elders in Dalish clans. “ _Hahren_.” The honorific tasted bitter when she spoke it.

Sarethia folded her arms over her chest, unmoved by Líadan’s concession. “What business do you have with her?”

No, she would not speak of this in front of a Creators-forsaken _crowd_. No one should have to suffer such a thing. Enough of her privacy had been stolen from her; she would not allow more to be taken by those who were undeserving. “That is not your business.”

“I think the—”

“Oh, give it up,” said the woman who had defended Líadan, nudging her way past the gathered elves to stand near Lanaya. “I don’t need you protect me, _hahren_. I am not even sure I require protection.” Her worn but well-kept dress swirled about her legs as she turned to Lanaya. “I am Nuala Tabris. I invite you to my home so that we may talk.” She shot a pointed look at the _hahren_. “I remember my manners, even if the others do not.”

Lanaya briefly inclined her head. “ _Ma serannas._ We are grateful for the invitation.”

The confrontation over, most of the crowd wandered away. Others watched them curiously as the two Dalish elves followed Nuala to her small home. Inside, they found it much the same as Nuala’s clothing: worn, yet clean and in good repair. She motioned for them to sit. “Would you care for some tea?” she asked them once they were seated.

“Please,” said Lanaya. 

Líadan wondered what sort of tea city elves had. Was it like the tea the humans had, tea she’d had to settle for during her time with them? Or was it more like Dalish tea, something she’d found only in Dalish clans? Tea that reminded her of long, serious, trying conversations with Keepers, yet also reminded her of what had once been her home. “You mentioned you have a cousin in Denerim?” she asked, noting a cradle in a far corner of the main room. A linen sheet had been thrown haphazardly over it, as if someone was afraid to touch it, yet no longer wished to see it. Nothing else in the room gave a single hint that there had been a baby. There were lumps under the sheet, and then Líadan understood. The rest of the child’s belongings had been piled into the cradle. A burial of memories to banish the reminders of a harsh truth.

Nuala moved about, gathering the needed items for tea and then set to making it, cups already waiting. She accidentally knocked one of the cups with her elbow, and then quickly turned and caught it before it was even halfway to the floor. A blush colored her cheeks. “Yes, I do. Shianni. She’s also the bann, made one after they brought down the walls and made the alienage the Elven Quarter. The job suits her.” Nuala gave them a half-smile, clearly amused. “I think she enjoys her chances to shout at the human nobles during Landsmeets.”

Líadan took immediate note that Nuala had said human and not shem, even though no humans were present to possibly offend. A good sign. She returned the smile. “I believe you are right. The Shianni I met during the Blight, and have run into occasionally in Denerim, seemed to relish the chances she got.”

“Ah, so you do know her.” Nuala bumped into a shelf, sending a jar towards the floor. She caught that one as well, frowned, and put it back in its place. Then she turned the frown onto the shelf, as if it had been where she’d not expected it.

“Yes,” said Líadan, studying Nuala’s movement with a warrior’s eyes, which she had not expected to do. The city elves she remembered from the Blight had not been fighters. Yet unless Nuala had unbelievable raw talent, she had been trained. “She was the first city elf I ever took a liking to, back when I was fresh from my clan and a new Warden.”

Nuala tilted her head as if a bit perplexed. “You have not always tolerated humans and city elves?”

“No. I am... very much changed from the Dalish elf conscripted by the Wardens during the Blight.” She considered for a moment. “For the better. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Nuala handed each of them a cup of tea, and then with one for herself, sat down across from them at the small wooden table.

Líadan motioned toward the door. “Mostly. You saw what happened. It has been difficult, moving between both human and _elvhen_.” She shrugged. “Add Dalish to the mix, and you get moments like we just had. The hold on my temper is far better than it once was, but I can only keep it for so long.” It was also interesting to her that she had opened up so easily once not surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Nuala did not seem a stranger to her. She was an unknown, yet known, and reminded her strongly of Shianni. That reminder was not a bad thing.

Nuala smiled again. “I understand entirely. The temper part, at least. Perhaps part of the changing surroundings, as well. When I moved from Denerim to Highever after marrying Nelaros...” Her words faltered, and neither of the other women missed the grief passing through Nuala’s eyes. She quickly regained her confidence. “I had difficulty adjusting at first. The alienage here in Highever is different than the one in Denerim. There seems to be more resentment of everyone not of the Highever Alienage—humans and Dalish alike. The most scorn is reserved for the elves who choose to live outside the alienage and outside the Dalish. I was... not used to that. In Denerim, we respected the Dalish more than resented them. We often had elves who would leave the city and attempt to find the Dalish to join them.”

“They are always welcome,” said Lanaya. “And if they do not know the old ways, they will be instructed.” 

Something in the way the Keeper looked at Nuala told Líadan that she was evaluating her for the same thing she was. “My birth clan had a member who came from Denerim. Pol was his name, I believe. Junar was still teaching him the bow when I left. But we never got very many city elves who found us. Those who did always stayed and responded well to instruction from the hunters.”

Lanaya set her teacup down and leaned forward slightly. “Yet you would not need to be taught, would you? You are skilled in the ways of a hunter. I see it in the way you move, in the way you respond to your environment.”

“My husband left things out the morning before he died. I kept them there when I returned from the healer’s home, thinking that it would make it seem like he wasn’t gone.” Her smile was sheepish. “Instead, I run into things or knock them over and never forget that he is gone. That Kadri—” She stopped and looked toward the door, her eyes shining with memory and unshed tears.

Líadan shifted in her rickety chair, wondering if they should be here at all. She felt an intruder upon another woman’s grief, and her request, if she made it, would only bring more attention to what Nuala had lost. She began to stand, an apology already on her lips. “ _Abelas_. I am sorry for our intrusion. We should go.”

“No, no need to apologize,” said Nuala. “The grief is something to be borne, yes, but it cannot replace the life I have left to me. Please, tell me why you have come to speak with me.”

She remained standing, unwilling to hurt this woman more. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Her eyes flicked over toward the covered cradle for only a moment.

Nuala caught the look. “This is related to my daughter’s death. Not speaking of it does nothing to alleviate the pain nor change what has happened. I may as well confront it before it confronts me when I least expect it.” She motioned toward the chair next to Líadan. “Please, sit back down. Tell me what about my daughter’s death brings you here, Warden.”

“Call me Líadan. That is my name. Grey Warden is my job and my clan, but it is not everything.” She returned to the chair. “Do you have a way to provide for yourself? I don’t know how it works in alienages; they are very different from a Dalish clan when it comes to livelihoods.”

“I’m not sure,” said Nuala. “My skills are not very useful for jobs city elves tend to do. My domestic skill is adequate at best. The only real skills I have are the ones Keeper Lanaya mentioned and what I learned through the lone month of my daughter’s life.”

Líadan wanted to spring up and leave again at hearing the pain behind Nuala’s almost firmly spoken words. 

“What skills?” asked Lanaya when Líadan remained silent. “I did not specify, only alluded.”

“Martial—fighting, really. Daggers or with only hands and feet. My mother taught me, the same as her mother taught her, and beyond. Most other city elves are uncomfortable with another elf possessing such skill, yet Nelaros not only tolerated it, but encouraged it. I would have taught my daughter the same.”

“If you would consent, I would like to see what you can do,” said Líadan, truly curious. It sounded like one of Nuala’s ancestors had been more recently Dalish, for some reason separated from her clan—perhaps fell in love with a city elf, like Zevran’s mother had—yet kept the way of the hunter, and passed it to her daughters.

Nuala’s eyes brightened a little. “Maybe. If you really want to see a fighter’s skill, you should see my cousin Rhian. My mother taught both of us after Rhian’s mother was killed, and Rhian really took to it. My father still laments that he will never find her a husband.”

“Find a husband? Your marriages are arranged?”

“Yes. Usually between different alienages so no one place becomes too insular. The parents arrange it between themselves. We normally don’t find out until it’s very close to the wedding, and usually don’t even meet our intended spouses until right before the ceremony.”

Líadan sat up straight at hearing yet another freedom denied to the city elves—one they seemed to deny to themselves. “You have no say in this?”

“Is it not the same among the Dalish?” Nuala’s brow furrowed. “One would think with the dwindling numbers of Dalish—”

“Every child of the Dalish is raised knowing that they must eventually bond and have children so that the hope of _elvhenan_ never dies.” Though the explanation came out rapidly and without prior thought, halfway through, Líadan realized that she had betrayed that teaching. It did not hurt to say; the pain flared afterward, squeezing her chest. She had no more explanation to give, her look to Lanaya almost helpless, pleading with her to carry on the conversation.

The Keeper nodded almost imperceptibly at Líadan, and then turned to Nuala. “A Keeper can sometimes suggest a match, but both parties have the option of turning it down.”

“Thank the Creators,” said Líadan, glad to have something else to think about, such as Fenarel’s idiotic bonding request.

Nuala raised an eyebrow at her. “You were offered a bad match in your clan?”

“Horrible,” said Líadan. “The suggested bondmate was and is a prat. Warden or not, I would never have bonded with him. It took a great deal of talking—some of it with fists—to convince him of how bad an idea it was.”

“So this was recent?” After Líadan nodded, Nuala continued. “So did they not know about... the... the prince?”

At first, Nuala’s inability to simply call Malcolm by his name puzzled her, and then Líadan remembered that he wasn’t just Malcolm to the city elves—he was a member of the family that ruled them. “Malcolm? No. Not at first. Then I told them and they didn’t have the best reaction. It also wasn’t the worst.”

“Is it...” Nuala still seemed to be having trouble speaking of the man she saw as a prince in even vaguely familiar terms. 

“You can talk about him plainly. He is a person, like anyone else, and he’d be the first to tell you. Ask whatever you’d like. I don’t mind answering questions for those who do not judge me before hearing my story.”

“All right. It’s just strange for me.” She hooked a thumb through the handle of her empty teacup and took a breath. “Is it true about what they say? That when the Wardens returned from Drake’s Fall after the Witch of the Wilds escaped, that he brought back a son she’d given him?”

“Yes and no,” said Líadan. “She did give him a son, but Morrigan is gone from Thedas, and will not return for a very long time, most likely not until after we have all passed to the Beyond. She left the child with Malcolm, and... she asked that I take her son as my own. I told her I would. So when the Wardens returned from Drake’s Fall, we brought back Malcolm’s son, but also my own. His name is Cáel.”

Nuala sat back, surprise showing plainly in her raised eyebrows at the answer she’d been given. “Well,” said Nuala, “that wasn’t the answer I expected.” She mulled over the information before looking at Líadan once more. “Are you here to ask me to become a Warden?”

“No. I...” Why was this so difficult? She did not normally have difficulty saying what needed to be said, unless Malcolm was involved—oh. That explained it. She sighed, and then tried again. “Before she departed, Morrigan traveled with Lanaya’s clan. A member of her clan, Panowen, has been Cáel’s nurse since he was born. She does not want to leave her clan, yet—”

“You would have no way to feed your son,” said Nuala. 

Her statement made Líadan feel strangely inadequate, that she could not provide Cáel with sustenance. As one trained a hunter, it would have bothered her in the first place. Yet, now that she was his mother, it bothered her in a way she’d not foreseen. “No, I do not. Not unless we remained with the Ra’asiel, but that’s not an option—”

“—for obvious reasons.” Nuala straightened and folded her hands before her on the table. “I will need to meet your son before I decide. I would also need to meet Malcolm since I gather I would be around him as much as I would be around you.”

“I haven’t even asked yet,” said Líadan.

“The question was obvious once you explained the situation.” Nuala smiled warmly at her. “It might be what I need—something that once sustained my daughter could allow another child to grow and thrive. That all that was her has not been lost. However, I still need to meet the child and his father before I give you my final decision.”

Líadan was speechless for the second time that day.

“I believe the words Líadan has forgotten are: _ma serannas._ Thank you,” said Lanaya. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Líadan, startled back to speech. “When would be good for you to visit? Or would you rather we come here? Or...” She remembered that Nuala had only wakened from her unconsciousness the day before. “How is your health? I’m no healer, but I see that you appear to be without remnants of your injuries.”

“I am well. The _hahren_ summoned one of the healers.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware the alienage had mage healers.”

“The alienage doesn’t, no.” Nuala stood and cleared the table. “I think it would be best if I went up to the castle. If just you and the Keeper caused such a scene today, I’m afraid I’ve no idea what the appearance of the prince and his son as well as you would do.”

“Oh, you aren’t going to tell us who healed you,” said Líadan, catching the hint and standing, while Lanaya did the same. “Fair enough. The other Wardens and I once ran into what the humans call a ‘hedge mage’ here in Highever. Nicest lady. Helped us get rid of the Tevinters. And Alistair met her, too. She helped us find a missing person. Never got to ask her name. I owe her my thanks. A few of us do.”

“Saitada,” said Nuala. “She’s the one who healed me. She has... always been good to the elves. And to others. Highever would be in trouble without her. Far more sick, that’s for certain.”

“The Chantry allows mages outside the Dalish go to waste,” said Líadan. “The Gift is thrown away far too often.” She paused, and then changed subjects, knowing she would just get worked up again. “What time tomorrow?”

“Morning would be fine. Should I just give my name at the gate and the guards will be expecting me?”

Líadan frowned at realizing she didn’t know how arrangements worked for Highever visitors who weren’t Grey Wardens. She’d always just walked in pretty much unquestioned, even if she wasn’t accompanying Malcolm. The only question that came was if the messengers or guards could manage to announce her presence before she got into the main hall. “I’ll arrange it.”

The agreement seemed to brighten Nuala. “Tomorrow morning, then.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Before the Vaels came to power, Starkhaven was ruled in quick succession by a number of petty warlords; some were genuine bannorn, but others were little more than bandits. Tired of the constant petty raiding and warfare between Starkhaven and neighboring cities, the original Lord Vael organized a peaceful protest against ‘King Ironfist,’ the low-born, self-declared ‘king of Starkhaven.’ Hundreds of Starkhaven’s most prominent citizens fasted for ten days and nights on the steps of the chantry, their numbers increasing every day. When his soldiers began deserting in droves at this example of piety, Ironfist surrendered his sword to the templars and left Starkhaven forever.  ****

In gratitude, the people of Starkhaven demanded that Lord Vael be king; he refused, however, saying he had no right to that title. He was instead proclaimed Prince of Starkhaven, and his family has ruled there ever since. They remain devout, dedicating at least one son or daughter per generation to become a cleric in the Chantry.”

—excerpt from _The History of the Princes of Starkhaven_

**Meghan**

****She ran. She ran until her lungs burned, until she knew there would be bruises on her leg from the constant bumping of her bundled armor, until her vision swam, and she didn’t know whether it was from blood loss or the running or what she didn’t want to believe had happened to her family, all but her Chantry-bound brother Sebastian.

The central square, shrouded in fog, offered her no consolation, not when Meghan could hear the mercenaries on the path behind her. She stumbled at the end of the square, her toe having caught the edge of an uneven paving stone. The cloth sack fell from her clutching hand, and her grandfather’s bow went with it, skidding along the granite stones. The loosened and fallen bowstring landed in a heap near her foot. Her imagination put her attackers on her heels, and the panic she’d wrestled with for what seemed like hours stole into her limbs. She struggled to regain her footing.

Steady arms encased in leather and metal caught her by her good elbow and helped her stand upright. “Are you all right, Princess Vael?” asked a deep voice.

Meghan found herself face to face with a templar she’d seen in passing at the chantry, and other times standing guard outside the old fortress holding Starkhaven’s Circle of Magi. Unfortunately, she’d never had the occasion to learn his name. While it had never seemed necessary before, she was in remiss now. “I am fine, Ser Templar.” Though she hadn’t quite believed it as a child, rescued by a templar out of the fog, she could now believe they were heroes. The Chantry’s knights. Or, at the very least, this one was hers.

“Excuse my saying so,” said the templar, who motioned to her arm, “but you don’t look it.”

Somehow, the fear and panic had driven the injury out of her memory. When she looked at her arm, it throbbed again, the pain reaching through her body, telling her how deep the wound must be. “I... I was preoccupied. I forgot. I’m being chased. There are mercenaries behind me, they—”

He cut her off, his trained eyes already assessing their tactical situation. “We should get you to shelter, Your Highness. Then get you a healer. The Chantry will offer you sanctuary, I’m sure of it. We’re right outside. Shouldn’t be surprised you didn’t see it with all this fog. Lucky for you I was standing guard.” He picked up Meghan’s dropped cloth sack and the bow. Then he gently took her uninjured arm and led her through the chantry doors. 

The other templar standing guard outside nodded at the one who walked with Meghan. “Ser Niven,” he said before they passed through. “Mercenaries?”

“Soon,” said Ser Niven. “I’m barring the doors behind me. That should hold them if they should figure out Princess Vael has taken refuge here. Don’t draw your weapon unless you see them approaching the chantry. We don’t want to give ourselves away.”

The other templar nodded. “I understand. They will not get through me unless I am dead.”

Two true knights, Meghan decided on hearing the other templar’s vow. Once inside, Ser Niven did as he’d said, barring the door behind them. On seeing them, the priest awake for any nighttime penitents or worshippers walked quickly over to them. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Princess Vael is injured and being chased by brigands,” said Ser Niven. “Go fetch the Grand Cleric. And send someone for a healer.”

The priest inclined her head. “Right away.” To her credit, the woman went right to her tasks, forgoing asking questions.

Ser Niven guided Meghan down the aisle toward the altar and the anterooms beyond. She accepted the continued aid without complaint, because her thoughts were slowly becoming fuzzy. Her steps had also slowed, the injury and everything that had happened catching up with her when the initial rush that had driven her vanished. By the time they reached the front of the altar, Grand Cleric Francesca had walked into the chancel, eyes searching for Meghan and the templar. 

When she caught up to them, her hands went out to aid Ser Niven with the increasing burden of helping Meghan to walk. “My child,” she said, sounding concerned and caring, and sincerely so, unlike earlier, when Meghan had asked for her help to correspond with Sebastian. “You need to sit down. I fear your wound has taken too much blood from your body.”

Meghan did not argue, allowing herself to be guided to sit in a nearby pew. Her gaze moved to her arm, where the deep laceration had long since bled through her makeshift bandage. She swept her gaze down the aisle, and noticed drops of blood on the paving stones down the entire length, from the door and up to the altar where she’d last stood. “Oh, I bled all over your chantry, Your Grace. I apologize.”

“Do not worry about it,” said Francesca. “It can be scrubbed. Your injury, however...” Her eyes shifted to Ser Niven. “Has a healer been sent for?”

He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I sent Mother Joan to the Circle to fetch one.”

A mage, then. Meghan had very little direct experience with mages, aside from the healer her father’s court employed. The woman had been kind and very skilled, and Meghan had never been afraid of her like people insisted she should be of mages. In her old age and years of proving harmless, she’d been granted permission to live at the castle, under guard of a single templar. 

Enchanter Betrys was probably dead with the others.

The tears returned, and Meghan blinked them back as best she could. There would be time for tears later. If there was a later. When she felt a hand on hers, she looked up into the worried eyes of the Grand Cleric.

“What happened, my child?” Francesca asked.

“Assassins. Mercenaries, not Crows,” Meghan said, her voice level, to her surprise. “They infiltrated the castle, I don’t know... I don’t know how. They’re...” She saw her memories, the images strong in her mind, and closed her eyes to stop them. But they played on, heedless of her plight. She opened her eyes again, and the Grand Cleric was still there, paying rapt attention. “They killed them all.”

“All? The entire—”

Meghan interrupted her, because she did not want to hear it said out loud. Not yet. Not until she was ready. “Yes.”

“Where are these mercenaries now?” Francesca’s tone had taken a slight hard edge.

“They chased me from the castle. They were behind me, but I do not know how far. I hope they don’t figure out I am here.”

“Even if they did,” said Ser Niven, “they would not dare disrupt the sanctity of the chantry.”

“Do not be so sure of that, Ser Templar,” said Francesca.  “The depraved give no quarter in pursuit of their quarry.” She looked as if she meant to say more, but she went quiet when Mother Joan appeared from the anterooms with two enchanters in tow, a man and a woman. 

The woman made a beeline for Meghan and the Grand Cleric. After a brief nod of acknowledgement to Her Grace, the enchanter dropped to her knees in front of Meghan, hands already plying at the injury.

Meghan watched the woman with curiosity. She hadn’t the kind countenance of a little old lady, especially with the symmetrical purple tattoos coloring her cheeks like a Crow’s, but her brown eyes held no threat. Meghan knew her best bet for escape would be to allow a healer to tend to her arm. Panic rose in her throat when she remembered she was hunted, but she was in the chantry. She would be safe here in the care of the Maker’s servants. 

“What was it?” the woman asked.

“Sword,” said Meghan. “Luck. The blow my arm stopped would have cleaved my head in two.”

Mother Joan gasped. “Maker have mercy.”

“This is not good,” said the enchanter. “It will take some time to heal it.”

The clash of sword on sword came from outside the chantry’s doors. “Time we do not have, I’m afraid,” said the Grand Cleric as she glanced toward the new sound. Then her gaze returned to the healer. “Do what you can, Enchanter Terrie. Princess Vael must be moved to another location. We cannot risk whatever harm to the chantry those brigands will do.” Francesca had the audacity to turn to Meghan and look her in the eye. “I am sure the Princess understands.”

Meghan supposed her gaping mouth communicated quite well that she did _not_ understand, but the Grand Cleric ignored it. Before she could figure out what to say—because she really just wanted to yell in outrage at this point—pain shot up her arm and into her chest when the healer pressed it above the wound. She winced and inhaled sharply, almost forgetting how the chantry was throwing her to the wolves. 

“Sorry,” said Enchanter Terrie. “Worse than I originally thought. This will require meticulous attention if we’re to get it working properly again.”

Meghan frowned. _Working properly again?_ Behind her, she heard the creaking of the leather in the templar’s armor as he walked closer to them.

“I am sure the Knight-Commander will not disagree to offering safe harbor to a member of the Vael family,” said Ser Niven. “The Circle is far more secure than the chantry. The Maker may look over you, Grand Cleric, and your flock inside the chantry’s walls, but you are not protected by mortal men encased in steel and armed with swords. Prayer will only get one so far without proper defenses, as you have already determined, Your Grace.”

Quite sensible. And not without a sense of humor, Meghan thought as she glanced back and noticed the faint amusement in the templar’s eyes. Perhaps it was a gallows humor, but humor nonetheless, and a good distraction for her this night. She also did not fail to see frustration tightening the corners of his mouth, frustration he was trying to hide under his humor. Ah, so he didn’t like the Grand Cleric kicking her out, either. Good to know. Meghan rather liked this templar.

“If we’re going to move her, this wound will have to be bound again,” said Terrie. 

“Here,” said the male mage who’d accompanied Terrie and Mother Joan as he took his hood from his head. He handed it to Terrie. “Use this.”

“But... that’s your hood,” Meghan said to the other mage, even as Terrie began to wrap Meghan’s arm. “And you certainly wouldn’t want it back after I’ve bled all over it.”

He shrugged and gave her a quick, tight smile. “I have other hoods at the Circle. This one isn’t even enchanted, so don’t worry about it being ruined. I never liked that one, anyway.”

Enchanter Terrie stood and brushed off her robes. “Her arm’s as good as it’ll get until we we’re at the Circle.”

The fighting died down outside and pounding on the door took its place. “Open up! Give us the Princess and no one will come to harm!”

“Stall them,” the Grand Cleric said to Mother Joan.

Joan didn’t seem convinced that it would work, but she ran down the aisle to the doors, regardless. “Give us a moment!” she said, pitched loudly enough to carry through the wood.

“Tell you what, you count to one hundred, Sister. When you reach the end, either you turn out the Princess voluntarily, or we’ll bust our way in. We don’t have a quarrel with the Chantry, but you’re keeping us from finishing out our contract.”

“Contract?” said Mother Joan, who looked over at Meghan. “Are they Crows?”

“No. Meticulous mercenaries. Crows would be quieter and far more subtle.”

The answer did not satisfy Joan, who turned to the Grand Cleric. “Your Grace, what do you wish me to do?”

“Count to one hundred,” said the Francesca. As Joan began counting, Francesca turned to Meghan and the others. “You’d best be vacated by the time she reaches one hundred or, I’m sorry, we’ll have to turn you over to the mercenaries. I will not see the Maker’s house defiled.” She broke eye contact with Meghan and shifted her gaze to Ser Niven. “Tell the Knight-Commander to prepare to defend the Circle. The brigands will be told of the Princess’s new location.”

Meghan started to argue, having heard enough of this cowardly ‘defense’ of the Grand Cleric’s. “What? You have to be kidding me. The Vaels have always been devout patrons of the Chantry! My brother is in the Chantry’s service! How could you just refuse sanctuary? Don’t you realize that’s what sanctuary _is_? You’re supposed to protect us!” And for once, the Chant of Light drilled into her head for as long as she could remember came in handy. “The Chant even says! ‘Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter.’ You have faltered, Your Grace. You—”

Ser Niven grabbed her good arm in an iron grip and hauled her up. “However right you are, Your Highness, there’s no time to argue,” he said. “Mother Joan is already half done with the counting and the Knight-Commander needs proper warning.” He motioned toward the two enchanters. “Grab that sack and the bow for us, please. Then lead the way through the back entrance. Maker guide us, we’ll make it in without them noticing.”

As they fled, Meghan cast one more look of outrage at the Grand Cleric. It was the second time that day the Chantry had failed her. Francesca met Meghan’s glare, and did not falter in her decision, her lips remaining pressed together in determination.

It was a short walk, with the Circle’s fortress not being far from the chantry. The building was of Tevinter make, and nearly as tall as the chantry itself. It was more imposing, almost feral in its appearance with heavy stonework and menacing statues sitting at regular intervals along the massive walls. As a child, she’d studied one closely, and it had made the hairs on the back of her neck raise. As a young adult, looking upon the two that flanked a side entrance, the same sense of alarm shivered through her, and she resolved never to look at them closely again.

Two templar guards in full plate flanked the inside of the door, each with a Sword of Mercy riding on a hip, and their opposite hands holding a partisan at rest. Corbinian had once told Meghan the difference between a partisan and a halberd, but she hadn’t seen much difference then, and she certainly didn’t now. What did matter is that the templar guards looked quite confident and capable. Though she did note that they guarded the inside from getting out, and not so much the outside from getting in.

Ser Niven and his small party were allowed to pass through without issue. He did quietly tell the other templars to make ready for an outside assault. Then once they were in a corridor, he snagged the first patrolling templar they came across. “I’m on my way to the Knight-Commander right now,” said Ser Niven. “Very soon, there will be a large band of mercenaries descending on this Circle, looking to get Princess Vael. If they get her, they will kill her. No one is to pass through our doors or walls. Go, tell the others.”

The young templar inclined his head and ran off.

Meghan did her best to take in every detail, read every pair of eyes for danger or deceit, find all her possible exits, but the edges of her vision had clouded, and her steps became unsure. She had the presence of mind to look at her injured arm, and saw that it had bled through the new makeshift bandage. If she were the type of person to swear, she knew now would be the time. But because she wasn’t, she stared her arm as if it had betrayed her, heedless of her body’s swaying as she toppled forward. Meghan did not see who caught her as the darkness overtook her.

When she woke, she found herself in a tiny room piled with crates, and she spotted root vegetables poking out the tops of baskets. Some sort of panty or cellar or—what in the Maker’s name was she doing here? “What—”

A hand guided her back down. “You lost a lot of blood,” said the mage Meghan recognized as Terrie. “Your arm... I’ve done what I can. The sword that struck you cut very deep, and it severed some nerves. I reattached them, but it will take some time for your hand to work properly again.” Terrie glanced away for a moment, and took a breath before looking Meghan in the eye. “I’ll be honest with you—it may never work properly again. What I can tell you is that it will not get worse than it is now, but it may not improve from where it is. I’m sorry.”

Meghan barely heard Terrie’s apology as she stared at her traitorous hand. Terrie had done fine work; there wasn’t even a scar on Meghan’s forearm. But as Meghan experimentally flexed her fingers, she ascertained that Terrie had been correct in her prognosis. Her fingers moved just as clumsily as they had before. And now where martial ability had leapt to the top of the list of skills that would keep her alive—she suspected courtly manners would quickly fall to the wayside, which was too bad, because her manners were impeccable—she would have to entirely retrain. She shot right-handed, because she was right-eyed. Before the attack, she held the bow with her left hand and pulled the bowstring with her right. While she thought she could train her right hand to hold the bow, she was certain it could not hold a nocked arrow in place while pulling a bowstring, and not manage to hit the arrow when it flew off the string. Where grabbing her grandfather’s bow had seemed a useless gesture before, it was now entirely futile.

She tried to sit up again, frustrated with not being able to see everything. “Where are the things I brought in with me?”

Terrie gave up on keeping her down and helped her into a sitting position. Then she inclined her head toward a nearby corner. “There. The sack you had and your bow.”

“I should put my armor on.” Meghan stood, wanting to move quickly, but forcing herself to move slowly lest she lost consciousness like she had before. “Why are we in a pantry?”

“Cellar,” said Terrie. “Though I suppose it’s also a pantry.”

“Whatever it is, why are we here? Does this Circle not have rooms? Guest rooms? The building is large enough. Surely, these rooms exist, so why would you put a royal guest in a cellar? Especially injured?”

Terrie sighed. “Ser Niven thought it safer to have you here. The mercenaries after you, they figured out where you went. They’ve been at the door for hours, complaining and kicking and knocking. They haven’t shut up the whole time. It’s—”

The door opened and Alain ran through, his eyes wide under a new hood. Meghan did a double take. The hood had some kind of headband wrapped around it, just above his ears, and a pink jewel centered over his forehead. It was the ugliest piece of clothing Meghan had ever seen. “Oh,” Meghan said before Alain could speak, “if I had known you would be left to wear _that_ , perhaps I should have bled all over the ground outside, or torn more material from my skirts. Anything to prevent your having to wear that.”

Alain’s hands went up to adjust the set of his hood. “What’s so wrong with my hood? Nothing’s wrong with my hood. It’s got wonderful enchantments on it and is quite comfortable. I don’t see—”

“Why are you here, Alain?” asked Terrie. “I assume you had a reason for running in.”

Alain stood straighter as he gathered himself. “Right, sorry.” He shot a frown at Meghan—who’d taken note that the mages of Starkhaven really didn’t care if their guests were royalty or not—and then began to fidget with his hands. “Decimus thinks this would be a good time to leave.”

Terrie rolled her eyes. “Decimus always thinks it’s a good time to leave. Did anyone tell him that the Circle is surrounded by angry, bloodthirsty mercenaries? Escape would mean a lot of fighting. Lots of death. I’m not a fan of death. Or fighting, really.”

“Decimus doesn’t feel the same way as you do.”

“No, I don’t suppose he does.”

Meghan wondered what that statement was supposed to mean.

 “He says there won’t be a better opportunity for months. The mercenaries are a good cover. So he says.” Alain didn’t seem convinced. His posture lacked more confidence than what little he’d had before. 

“And, what?” Terrie asked. “Does he think the templars will just let us take a stroll outside?”

“He mentioned a distraction, but didn’t go into details. Told me I should tell you, see if you wanted to come along. Thought it would be nice to offer.”

Terrie lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed right after. “Decimus is never nice to be nice. He’s working some sort of angle. I mean, an angle aside from escape.”

“Is it so bad living here that some of you would risk death to leave?” Meghan asked. She’d assumed living in the Circle would be much like living at the castle, especially as a member of the royal family. Guards following everywhere, especially outside, but nothing overly oppressive.

“Some,” said Alain. “I’m not sure yet if I’m one of them, but... you truly have no idea what it’s like. They watch us constantly. Their eyes are always on us.” He looked over to Terrie. “Maybe I am ready to leave. I don’t know.”

Terrie sighed.

Someone rapped on the door, and Alain opened it for another mage to bustle in. She had brown hair much like Terrie’s, but had bright blue eyes that seemed to look straight through you. Meghan felt unnerved meeting her gaze and fought the impulse to look away.

“I need to speak with the two of you,” said the woman.

“Is this about Decimus, Grace?” asked Terrie.

“Maybe. We can discuss that amongst ourselves.” Grace jerked her chin in Meghan’s direction. “And not in front of her. Outside.” 

Meghan was surprised to see that both Terrie and Alain followed the other mage without any further questioning. With a sigh of her own, she flopped backward onto the cot, too overcome by her exhaustion to fetch out her armor. Besides, with the state of her hand, she would still require help in donning it. 

It hadn’t been long when the door opened again. She went to sit up again, but found her arms bound by an invisible force. More magic, she supposed, being surrounded by mages.

A man Meghan had yet to meet led the other mages inside. His light eyes burned with more intensity than Grace’s when he stopped and looked at her. “Do you wish to accompany us?” he asked.

“Us? Us who?” Meghan had no inclination to vacate her safe position behind the thick, solidly built walls of the old Tevinter fortress. 

“My fellow like-minded mages and myself.” The man made a nearly imperceptible movement with his fingers, and Meghan’s bonds faded. “I have been convinced by Terrie and Alain to extend you an offer to help you escape this Circle with us. I feel compelled to tell you that should you choose to remain here, you will most likely die. Between your particularly determined band of would-be assassins and our recent distraction, very few will leave this fortress alive, if at all.”

Meghan frowned. What sort of distraction had this man arranged? “What about the templars?”

The man laughed. “They will go to their Maker’s side, of course, if they are not distracted. I daresay it’s a fate better than they deserve.” The bitter humor disappeared, replaced by earnestness, driven by an emotion Meghan could not yet identify. Strands of the mage’s lank, reddish-blond hair kept falling into his eyes, but he ignored them as he maintained eye contact with her. “This is the only way. They will keep us in here, or they will lead us outside into the slaughter in the name of bringing us to the safety of the chantry—the selfsame chantry that kicked you out, by the way. So, you can imagine the sort of refuge we would find in the Maker’s house. But without the constraints of the Circle, of the templars, I can guarantee our safety. Your safety. But leave the templars alone, and we are dead. We arranged a distraction while you were unconscious. It should manifest itself shortly.” He leaned closer to her. Had Meghan had the room, she would have stepped away to regain her personal space. Instead, she had to deal with his closeness, his intensity. “I must have your decision.”

“How can...” She could hardly comprehend what had happened to her family, the chase, and the chantry and here, and... She caught a whiff of acrid smoke on the air in the small room. 

“Choose, young princess. Smell the smoke? Time grows short.”

Meghan stood, shakily at first, and then steadied herself. She grabbed the cloth sack holding her armor, tucked her grandfather’s bow under her arm, and inclined her head toward the door. She had fought too hard to stay alive that night—she had no intention of dying now. “Lead the way, Ser Mage.” 

“Decimus,” he said, and extended a hand.

She shook his hand, astonished at how smooth it was. “Meghan Vael.”

He smiled as he let go of her hand, a slow smile that contained no hint of good humor. “I know.” Then he motioned to the other mages and made for the door. “The time has come for us to depart.”

Once in the hallway, the smell of smoke became almost overwhelming, and the air stung their eyes. She blinked back tears as she followed Terrie, with Alain behind her. Other mages joined them as they wove their way through the corridors and the increasing amount of smoke. Meghan tripped over a templar body in the next hallway, the stumble sending her sprawling. In the blur of the fall, she saw another image instead, a memory. The impossibly still body of her brother Corbinian, his once lively blue eyes fixed and unseeing, gone to the Maker’s side. She blinked to shove the memory away as she pushed up with her good arm, her cheekbone stinging from the impact with the stone floor. Then she saw her current reality, in warm eyes of her Chantry knight gone cold, having joined Corbinian in the eternal Fade.

The mercenaries had yet to force their way inside the Circle, she realized. The mages had killed Ser Niven. She wondered if she were merely prolonging her inevitable death, her actions only changing whose hands would render her dead. “Rest well, true knight,” she whispered to Ser Niven’s body. “You have done the Maker’s work.” Her hand passed over his eyes to close them, and then she removed his Chantry amulet. If he had family, she would see it sent to them. It was the least she could do for his aid. No. The least she could have done was save his life, in return for saving hers. 

The fury appeared, propelling her to her feet. “You said you’d made a distraction!” she shouted at Decimus’ back. “A distraction! Not kill—”

Decimus stopped and spun to face her. “Dead templars _are_ a distraction, Princess.”

She motioned around them. “Because a fire and attacking mercenaries weren’t enough?”

“The fire has burned our phylacteries,” said Grace, stopping along with the rest of the mages who sought escape. “Their loss will only make the templars more vigilant, not less. Even with these ones dead, they will send others after us when they do not find our bodies amongst the dead. They will bring us to other Circles and make us Tranquil. Compared to the fate we would suffer, the deaths of these templars are of little consequence.”

“How can you say that?” asked Meghan. “You would still be alive, even then! These men and women are dead because of you!”

“Our bodies would be alive, but we would be dead nonetheless,” Alain said quietly, his voice scarcely louder than the shouting from rooms beyond them. “You are lucky to not know of the living death that is Tranquility.”

Meghan did wonder what the mages were referring to. However, being alive had to be better than dead. “But—”

Decimus appeared in front of her, his finger in her face, a snarl on his lips. “You know nothing of which you speak, child. You would do well to keep your counsel to yourself if you wish to live.”

She had nothing more to say, nothing they would like, things which would only result in her death. So she gathered her few belongings that had scattered during her fall, and followed the mages into the night. From the shadows of the central square, she saw a few mercenary bodies at the foot of the steps in front of the Circle’s main doors. Templars milled about, moving between them and the chantry. The Circle burned brightly behind them all, while the city watch doused the chantry next to it with water to protect it from the flames, the Grand Cleric directing the effort. Meghan wondered what that said, that the Maker’s followers sacrificed the lives of the remaining mages for the sake of a symbol.


	9. Chapter 9

“Your path is laid out before me and plain to see—in the lines of your face and the scars of your heart.”  ****

— _the Guardian of the Urn of Sacred Ashes_

**Líadan**

After parting ways with Lanaya, who headed back for her camp, Líadan found Hildur in Highever’s main yard, off to the side in one of the guard training areas. The Warden Commander had Thierry and five other former templars sparring one another inside the fence. In addition to Hildur observing, Sigrun, Oghren, and Sten were also there, running the recruits through their bouts, but Malcolm was nowhere to be found. Hildur motioned for Líadan to come over. 

At the summons, Líadan felt a twinge of trepidation, remembering that Lanaya had spoken with Hildur about her condition before she’d even known herself. And she had no idea what Hildur would have to say to her. Fiona had been sent and kept at Weisshaupt when she’d carried Alistair. Líadan wondered if it was Warden policy, if she’d be sent to live at Weisshaupt as well. 

If that were so, she’d return to the Dalish before she would allow that to happen. There was no way she’d agree to living semi-permanently in the cold Warden fortress.

“You find a nurse?” Hildur asked as soon as Líadan was within earshot. She was leaning against the lower rail of the post and rail fence surrounding the training yard. 

Líadan leaned next to her, but on the second, higher rail. “A possibility, at least. She wants to meet Malcolm and Cáel first.”

“I’m sure she’ll like Cáel, but Malcolm could be a bust. If he gets nervous and puts his foot in his mouth, it could go either way. I hope she has a sense of humor.” There were shouts of dismay from the templars when Sten stepped into the yard ‘to provide them with an adequate challenge.’

“I think she does. She showed brief moments of it today when Lanaya and I spoke with her, but her grief is still quite strong, which is understandable.” Thus far, Nuala seemed very likable, and a good fit. She only hoped that Malcolm wouldn’t do what Hildur predicted. It’d been known to happen more than once. However, he did possess the same Theirin charm as his brother, so that could save him. It was fairly hard to dislike either of them.

Hildur pursed her lips for a moment, her eyes still on the sparring recruits. “So, what are you going to do?”

“She’s coming up to meet them tomorrow morning then she’ll let us know what she’s decided.”

“Not that.” Hildur finally turned and looked at Líadan. “All right. Walk with me.” Without waiting for the other woman to agree, she started for the defense wall, well away from all the activity in the main yard outside the keep.

Líadan decided she was getting tired of walking around Highever’s grounds, but with half the castle damaged in some way, living quarters were getting tight, and privacy hard to find. Walking the perimeter really offered the only way to engage in private conversations. And since Hildur had just requested such a conversation, Líadan knew they were no longer talking about Cáel’s nurse. She wondered what would happen if she just turned and ran. It almost seemed a better option than facing a truth she would never have considered.

Once they were a safe distance from prying ears, Hildur asked, “You spoke with Lanaya, I assume?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Ah, so you were avoiding my real question. I’ll ask again: what are you going to do?” Hildur didn’t sound upset or angry, not even perturbed. Merely curious.

Líadan wasn’t sure if it was a deceptive mildness, so she remained cautious. “I’m okay with denial for now.”

Hildur stopped and gave her a level look. “You’ve been in denial for at least a month or two, I believe.”

“How’s that work? I’ve known for all of a few hours.”

“Really?” Hildur squinted at her, as if trying to determine if Líadan was lying outright or had just been lying to herself. “You hadn’t noticed that you’d skipped your bleeding for two months?”

“Oh, no, I noticed. I thought it was a side effect of Warden infertility. Honestly, I’d thought it a fantastic side effect to not have to worry about that any longer, especially when traveling a lot or facing several protracted battles in a row. You know, like during a Blight.” Creators, that would’ve been great during the Blight. When she’d noticed their disappearance, she’d been half annoyed that it’d taken that long since her Joining for them to go away.

Hildur half-smiled, and then resumed walking. “Yeah, no. That won’t happen for at least five years after a Joining. Hence the slightly less than impossible chance of having children for newer Wardens. Also why Morrigan needed a newer Warden for her little ritual.”

Líadan let go of an annoyed breath. “You could’ve _said_ something. If I’d known, we would’ve taken precautions.”

“I thought Riordan would’ve told you.”

She blinked in surprise. “Are we talking about the same Riordan? Brown hair, blue eyes, born in Ferelden but had an Orlesian accent? Because he didn’t tell us anything, and if he _did_ remember to say something, it was almost at the last possible second. Want to know when he told us about the Grey Warden delivering the final blow to the archdemon dying?”

“I’m almost afraid to know the answer,” said Hildur. Then she noticed one of the gardens that hadn’t been trampled, burned, or both. “Oh, a garden! I love gardens.” She swung to her left and led them inside among the lush trees and blooming flowers. 

Líadan barely noticed the greenery, too preoccupied with less natural situations. “Almost right before. Not even a week before. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have told us well before he did. So we could, you know, get used to the idea that one of us was certain to die.” Líadan had forgotten how irritated she’d been at him for withholding that critical information for so long.

“Oh, my.” Hildur sat on the edge of one of the benches, kicking at the ground beneath it with the toes of her boots. “I think I might need to meet with all you Wardens who Joined during the Blight to make sure you know everything there is about being a Warden. If he skipped _that_ for so long—during a Stone-taken _Blight_ —there’s no telling what else he left out. And I can’t believe he didn’t think to mention the specifics of the fertility issue, especially after seeing two new, younger Wardens becoming involved.”

Líadan’s frustration built on knowing that if Riordan had warned them, this entire situation could have been avoided. She’d thought precautions weren’t necessary, that there wasn’t a concern of her bearing an elf-blooded human child, because she wasn’t supposed to have any children at all, ever. Instead, she was caught between human and _elvhen_ more than she’d ever been before. “I’ve half a mind to go find his body in the Deep Roads and kick it. Repeatedly.”

“As do I.” Hildur peered up at her. “Since that isn’t a realistic option, what are you going to do?”

She sat next to the Warden Commander and put her head in her hands. “I don’t know. This wasn’t... it.. I still can’t even really believe it. I keep thinking that you’ll all say ‘Ha! It was a trick!’ at some point, because otherwise, I can’t even consider the possibility without panicking.”

“No trick,” said Hildur. “Of mine or Lanaya’s, anyway. Riordan possibly. Maybe he thought you and Malcolm would make cute babies and the idea got the best of him. Getting into your Calling does make the mind a bit funny.”

Líadan stood up and paced, unable to stay still. “But he _knew_. He knew how I felt about that, about how the Dalish feel about elves having a human’s children. Creators, even city elves frown upon crossing that line.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard that kind of Dalish superiority over city elves from you before. It really doesn’t suit you. Well, the you I’ve known. Maybe it suited you before you became a Grey Warden.” When Líadan didn’t react, Hildur asked, “What happened in the alienage this morning to throw you off this much?”

“There were so many of them. First they were angry and accused me of the smug arrogance you referred to. And then they all confronted me about Malcolm and accused me of throwing away being elven. They reacted like that, treated me like that, and they didn’t even know how I’d agreed to be mother to a human child, or that...” She couldn’t say it. Saying it out loud would make it far more real than she could handle. So she halted and stared at a honeybee landing on one of the flowers, the bee becoming blurry as tears formed and did not fall.

“I can see how that would throw you. You’ve never been good with large crowds, especially if you can’t use your bristling Dalish glare to fend them off.” Hildur went quiet, and the only thing Líadan could hear from behind her was the scuffing of the Warden Commander’s boots against the dirt. “Before you decide anything, here’s something for you to consider. Elf-blooded human or not, this could be the only child you ever bear. I’ve never heard of a Warden having more than one while still tainted, even when the father isn’t a Warden himself. Fiona was only tainted when she had Alistair. With Malcolm, she was already free of the taint. So if you’ve ever allowed yourself—despite what you were taught and believed as a Dalish elf—even the slightest moment of wanting to have a child with Malcolm, this is it. Long odds say you won’t have another chance.”

Líadan decided the grass underfoot looked comfortable, because her legs had decided they no longer wanted to support her. She spun and sat down, drawing her knees up under her chin, and then wrapping her arms around her legs. She had once thought the decision to cut her bloodline from continuing the elves had been someone else’s, had been the choice of the taint and the Joining and the Wardens, already set and done. And now, it turned out to have been her choice all along. The guilt welled up, heavy and dark, and she closed her eyes against it.

The sounds from the garden enveloped her, and she could do nothing but listen. She heard the shushing of the leaves brushing against each other in the breeze, the low drone of the honeybee, the digging of a rabbit, and the rustling of the grass. Every sound reminded her of the forests of her childhood, of when she’d been only Dalish. Not a Warden. Not an elf living amongst humans, caught between two worlds. Not an elf who’d been unlucky enough to fall in love with a human, yet lucky enough to fall in love at all. It startled her to realize the elf she’d been before the eluvian had changed everything would have hated her. Looked down upon her, believed her to be a traitor to her people like Velanna had more than once accused her of being.

The person she had become still had a hard time disagreeing with the sentiment.

“What will the Wardens do with me?” she asked.

“Not force you to go to Weisshaupt like Fiona if that’s what you’re referring to,” said Hildur. “She was sent there because of what happened with the Architect. Remember, he sped up the taint in her and the other Wardens on that expedition. All of them except for Duncan, immune due to an enchanted dagger, were well into their Callings by the time they emerged. Yet Fiona was carrying Alistair at that point, and afterward, found herself free of the taint. Weisshaupt wanted to know how the taint had been sped up, and then they wanted to know how she was cured. They never figured out either one. Then they noticed Fiona was pretty good at running and organizing the mage Wardens, so they promoted her and kept her there. Your situation is different. I suppose more normal.”

Líadan didn’t even feel the expected relief at hearing Hildur’s words. She had no reply, no words that would come out, so she said nothing. Her eyes remained closed.

“Do you think telling Malcolm would help?” Hildur asked.

“I’m not sure what would help,” said Líadan.

A thump as Hildur must have gotten up from the bench. Footsteps, and then a kind hand placed briefly on her head. “You’ll figure it out. Remember, you always have a place in the Wardens, no matter what happens.” A pause and the hand disappeared. “You need some time alone?”

 _No. Yes._ “Probably.”

“Fair enough. If at any point you think talking to me would help, feel free.” More footsteps, and then Líadan could only hear the sounds of the outdoors again. 

She sat for a long time. After a while, she shifted positions, moving to take shelter in the shade of one of the mature trees. At some point, unable to keep pace with the furious rate of her thoughts, she fell asleep.

Líadan woke to a friendly, familiar voice and a hand gently shaking her shoulder. “Hey, wake up. It _can’t_ be good for your neck to sleep like that.”

She blinked and resisted the urge to rub at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I didn’t think you had,” said Malcolm. “I’ve been looking for you for ages and I think you must’ve been sleeping for that long, too. It’s nearly past sunset.” He settled in next to her, stretching out his long legs in the grass.

She blinked again and looked west to confirm it, seeing the sun nearly fully behind the mountains of Drake’s Fall. “I must have.” Then she looked over at Malcolm, noticing he carried a long, relatively thin leather case, one she hadn’t seen since they had traveled from the ruins of the Arlathan Forest. “What’s that?”

He considered it for a moment, tapping his fingers on the leather before he opened it, lifted out a bow, and handed it to her. “Something I made. Well, okay, something I helped make a little bit. I tied the grip. Part of the grip.” He pointed. “That knot there. That’s my knot.” He took a breath, and then released it. That didn’t seem to help him explain whatever it was he was trying to get out, and he rubbed at his hair. 

Why was he so anxious? She wondered if he’d expected her to get angry because he was after her about using the bow again. They’d argued about it once, but he’d mostly dropped it afterward, unwilling to make it a perpetual argument. But even then, when he’d asked her to use the bow, she hadn’t lost her temper. So it didn’t follow that he’d assume that now. Líadan traced her fingers along the bow’s curves, reading the master’s mark entwined with June’s symbol, and then the tiny yet remarkably well wrought griffon on the upper limb. It was, admittedly, a beautiful bow. Its lines reminded her of her mother’s bow, the one she’d snapped over her leg a lifetime ago.

Malcolm finally managed to speak again. “I’m not sure how this works. I mean, I’ve never witnessed the actual _asking_ part of bonding among the Dalish. I suppose I could just ask since I totally just gave myself away, or maybe you figured it out when I mentioned the helping make the bow bit and...” 

She stared at him, her fingers wrapped around the grip of the bow. Had he said bonding?

“All right,” he said, standing up and walking in a small circle while Líadan continued to stare wordlessly at him, “you’re scaring me. However, I’ll continue, because that’s what I’ve almost always done in situations like these with you. I tried to figure out the Elvish, but you’re the only person I’ve got left to help me with that sort of thing, and that would’ve entirely given it away. So I threw out what I had because it was rubbish and... blast. I’m horrible at this. Alistair’s letter was better.” He dropped down next to her again. Then he took another breath, reached out with his right hand, and traced her _vallaslin_ from over her eyebrow to her cheekbone. “I love you. And... and I want you to always be completely, entirely certain that I do, that I wouldn’t leave you, so I thought this might be a way to prove it. Bonding. If you’d have me, I mean.”

He _had_ said bonding. What brought this on? Someone must have told him what she’d only found out that morning. She looked down at the bow in her hands, and then back at him. “Who told?” _Who told because I’m still not ready to know myself and I can’t handle it if you know before I’ve sorted out my own mind._

He smiled. “You, actually, but you might’ve been joking when you explained how your people proved to each other that they weren’t going anywhere. But, ha! I was listening, believe it or not. So I helped make something and gave it to you and I’m really hoping I didn’t screw any of it up and that you’ll answer. With a yes, preferably, otherwise it will be terribly tragic. Also, I might cry. Or my heart will explode from beating too fast. Or both, maybe.”

Oh. He didn’t know. He’d just come up with the bonding idea and—Creators, he really had just asked her to bond with him.

She didn’t know what to say.

Líadan took in everything: his deep blue eyes mixed with hope and fear, his slight grin lopsided, his body tense with anxiety, causing his normally smooth movement of a capable fighter to be clumsy. How the setting sun highlighted the red in his short hair, the roundness of his ears, the late-day stubble on his cheeks, how broad his shoulders were compared to the typical narrowness of an elven male’s, how none of these things bothered her, how she accepted all of them as him. She went back to his eyes, back to the hope, back to the fear.

She realized he had started to dread her answer and her heart caught in her throat because she _loved him_ , and yet... and yet... Everything suddenly closed in on her, more closely than in the alienage that morning, her chest compressed along with it, and breathing became very difficult.

Bow in hand, she fled.

By the time night had fully fallen, Líadan found herself near the Ra’asiel’s encampment, at first easily dodging the hunters’ patrols until she noticed one of them was Panowen. She stood fully, allowing the outline of her form to be seen.

“Come out, whoever you are,” said Panowen, arrow nocked and drawn to her cheek, the tip already aimed directly at the intruder’s chest. “Do not raise your bow or I will loose my arrow.”

“I have no arrows,” said Líadan as she stepped forward, “so you needn’t worry.”

“Líadan?” asked Panowen. “What are—you do know that you could just enter the camp through the main entrance, yes? You are Dalish. You are always welcome.”

“I know. I had not expected... I did not mean to find myself here.” Her words, she realized, could stand for many things, and not just how she’d unconsciously wandered back to the Dalish. She had not meant to fall in love with a human. She had not meant to conceive his child. She had not meant to abandon him after he’d asked her to remain with him for the rest of their lifetimes. She had not meant to cause so much trouble, from her magic to the templars to the eluvian to now.

Panowen studied her for a moment longer, and then said to the other elf with her, “Mithra, go pick up Merren and continue your patrol.” Once Mithra had gone, Panowen turned back to Líadan. “I think you should see the Keeper.”

What would Marethari think? What would she say? But this Keeper was not the Keeper who had watched her grow from a newborn into a hunter. This Keeper was not the one who had sent her away. Perhaps it would be better. The hope of safety, of a break from the turmoil within her, flared briefly in her chest.

Panowen took her gently by the arm. “Come on.” She didn’t ask any prying questions, she hadn’t looked on Líadan with pity or anger, just concern, the concern one would have for a troubled clanmate.

Líadan followed her into the camp, blinking at the light of the banked fires. Most of the clan was asleep, only the hunters on patrol awake at this time of night. She didn’t want to be more trouble. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I don’t—we don’t need to wake her up.”

“She is already awake.” Panowen inclined her head toward the fire outside the Keeper’s aravel, where Lanaya stood as if awaiting their arrival.

Somehow, Líadan wouldn’t have been surprised if she was. Keepers and Firsts had that way about them. It made her miss the Marethari of her childhood, or her friend Merrill, who would have made a good Keeper after Marethari passed. But Marethari was no longer the same, and Merrill had been exiled. Líadan should have felt strange at how young this Keeper was, at how someone so relatively young compared to most Keepers still possessed the same wisdom and poise commonly found with most elders and Keepers. Yet the feeling of strangeness did not manifest.

Then someone was standing between her and the Keeper. Líadan knew, without Oisín saying anything, what he was thinking. _Seth’lin. Arvhen’din_. Thinblood. Exile.

The hope of safety disappeared. She didn’t know what she needed or wanted, but the look in Oisín’s eyes was the last thing she could face. It had been a reflection of her own eyes, her own worst thoughts. As she had done before, she fled, leaving Panowen and Oisín and Lanaya standing in the middle of their camp.

She felt lost, needing safety, needing, she realized, her mother.

Another person long lost to her and she once more felt the gaping hole left behind.

Along the way, she had found others who had filled that role in part, and yet, they were all now gone as well. Either changed so much as to be a stranger or killed by the taint.

She ran in the direction of the castle, skirting around a collapsed defense wall, and inside Highever’s vast grounds. When she finally stopped running, she found herself back in the garden. Malcolm was gone, unsurprising considering the length of time she’d been away, and how suddenly she had departed. The garden had filled with night sounds—the chirping of crickets, the croaking of tree frogs, the soft flapping of a bat’s wings—the sounds of a hunter’s night patrol. Dew had already dappled the flowers, reflecting the light from a gibbous moon, all the light a Dalish elf needed to see in order to protect the clan as they slept.

“Child,” said a kind, time-worn voice Líadan had heard many times during the Blight—Wynne. “What are you doing out here at this hour?” Cloak gathered around her, the elderly mage was seated on the same stone bench Hildur had perched on that afternoon.

“I don’t know.” And she didn’t. She’d come full circle and had no better sense of direction than when she’d left. 

“Someone told me you slept out here all afternoon. I do have to say, as a healer and a friend, I’m very concerned about you.”

Because letting Wynne find out for herself was easier than saying it out loud, Líadan sat down next to her. “If it makes you feel better, you can take a look.”

Bright healing magic flared instantly around Wynne’s hands before Líadan could change her mind. She felt the familiar tingle of magic along her skin as it looked for what was broken so that it could fix it. Then the magic retreated, and Wynne said, “Oh. Oh, I’m—” She stopped, electing instead to simply take Líadan’s hand in hers, the older woman’s grip warm and reassuring.

They sat like that for a time, the silence between them comforting without being oppressive.

Then Líadan said, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Wynne let go of her hand and gave it a final pat. “That is what many who find themselves in your situation say. I believe I said it myself once, long ago.”

Líadan had forgotten about Wynne’s youthful indiscretion. “No, I mean, it wasn’t... I wasn’t... we were told that with both of us being Wardens, we couldn’t have children. Certainly not with each other, and probably not with a non-Warden. It’s why it was okay for me to...” Okay for her to what? It wasn’t as if she were merely sleeping with him. She loved him. She’d agreed to raise his son as her own. She had no intentions of spending the years remaining to her with anyone else. 

“To what?” asked Wynne.

It was all those things, Líadan realized. “Be with him. Because I couldn’t have children, it meant that being with a human wasn’t ending an elven bloodline—especially an elven bloodline gifted with magic. But my bloodline was already lost due to the taint. That’s what I was told. And now I find out it wasn’t and nothing is the way it’s supposed to be.”

“If you and Malcolm were both human, or both elves, would you be happy?”

“I—yes. Inconvenienced, perhaps. Also surprised. But not unhappy. Not guilty.”

“Guilty?” Bewilderment sounded in Wynne’s tone. “Guilty of what?”

“Betrayal of my people for...” she trailed off and motioned toward her abdomen. “This.”

“So this uncertainty is because you are Dalish and he is human?”

“Yes.”

Wynne turned from her contemplation of the shadowy garden to look at Líadan. “I do not know enough of your ways to help you as much as I would like or as much as you need. I do, however, know someone who does know your ways. Someone who will gladly speak with you and guide you through this turmoil.”

Líadan’s fingers clung to the bench, the stone underneath cold and clammy. “What if they aren’t my ways anymore?” A fear spoken out loud.

“They are your ways.” Wynne’s hand folded over hers again, pulling the clinging fingers away from the damp stone, reassuring once again. “I doubt you could ever lose them, even if you’re afraid that you have.” A hand went around her shoulders and drew her up from the bench. “I’ll bring you to someone who can absolve you, in your eyes, of this guilt. Guilt I believe is not necessary, but we both know guilt is never rational.”

Líadan was unsurprised to find Wynne leading her back to the Dalish camp she’d fled from earlier. Circles within circles as she tried to regain the once certain footing of her mind. The hunters at the entrance allowed them to pass between them without words, subtly inclining their heads in the direction of the Keeper’s fire. Panowen and Oisín were gone, but Lanaya remained, standing at the fire, and looking in their direction as they walked over.

Wynne passed her over to Lanaya, both with gentle words kindly spoken that washed over Líadan, who had some trouble comprehending them. A hand touched her shoulder and then was gone. The Keeper put an arm around her shoulders, taking up where Wynne had left off. “Let us speak inside,” said Lanaya, “where you may say whatever you need.”

Líadan chanced a look at the Keeper. When she saw how Lanaya’s eyes regarded her softly, with warmth and concern and _understanding_ , she nearly cried. “I don’t know what I need to say.”

“Then we will sit until your words return.”

They went inside the aravel. Lanaya guided her to a chair, and then handed her a mug of Dalish tea. It reminded Líadan so much of conversations with Marethari, both good and bad, that the tears threatened again. She hadn’t so much as grasped the mug or inhaled the steam and she’d nearly broken.

Part of her wondered if she already had.

“Will you allow me to take that for you?” Lanaya asked.

Líadan gave her a puzzled look, and the Keeper motioned toward Líadan’s hand. She glanced down and was surprised to find that she still held the bow Malcolm had given her. Still in one piece, still without flaw, though she hadn’t even realized she still carried it. She passed it to the Keeper.

“This is fine work.” Lanaya turned the bow in her hands, the black lacquer shining in the light cast by the oil lamps. “Master Ilen’s crafting?”

“Mostly.” Líadan’s voice was rough, as if she’d been crying, even though she hadn’t. “Malcolm helped with the grip. It was their project, unknown to me, when we visited the Mahariel on Sundermount.”

Comprehension moved across Lanaya’s face. “Ah. You told him and—”

“No. He doesn’t know. He asked without prompting. Without hints.” Had he? Or had there been hints she had not allowed herself to see? She had felt blindsided, even though she’d known about the tooled leather case and wondered at its contents. She’d assumed he was going to attempt to convince her to resume her archery. An assumption both right and wrong.

Lanaya seemed to mull over Líadan’s answer as she set the bow on a countertop filled with baskets of herbs. Then she asked, “Do you remember what Morrigan said before she went through the eluvian?”

Líadan blinked, not having expected Morrigan to come up. “She said many things.”

“I was referring to what she said about change. Specifically, she said, ‘Change is coming to the world. Many fear change and will fight it with every fiber of their being. But, sometimes, change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free.’ Do you remember?”

“Yes.” She leaned over her cup and let the steam from the drift over her face before looking at the Keeper again. “Why?”

“Because you fear change and you fight it. Change might be what you need most. It would certainly set you free of this guilt.”

“It’s a fair guilt. I would be making myself a thinblood. An exile.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Maybe I already am.”

“Guilt is rarely fair,” said Lanaya. “It’s often so heavy it pushes down every other emotion, so that guilt is the only thing you feel. There are other emotions, and they are more equitable.”

It wasn’t fair of Lanaya to speak of emotions Líadan wasn’t allowed to have. “How can I deserve to feel anything but guilt? I possess the Gift. My bloodline has the Gift, and I am ending it for the People because of...” She still could not say it.

“Because you will have an elf-blooded child? You have decided to bear it, even if you haven’t realized it. You would not have quite so much disquiet within you regarding your _elvhen_ heritage and ending it if you had decided against it. Refusing to say it out loud will not make it untrue.”

Líadan scrubbed at her face with the palm of her hand. The Keeper was right. She had already decided to bear the child, elf-blooded human though it would be. Anguish swept through her; this moment would mark the beginning of her exile. 

Lanaya continued speaking through the silence, fighting against the strong current of Líadan’s guilt. “Tell me, why did you not agree to be Marethari’s First?”

“I was no longer of their clan, so I could not.”

“Other clans send people with the Gift to be trained as Firsts for clans who have not enough of their own with the Gift. Your situation would have been no different.”

“Except that I am a Grey Warden. They cannot become Firsts or Keepers, no matter how much Marethari wanted.”

“Yes, you are a Grey Warden. Had you not been made a Warden, your life, your bloodline, would have ended when you and Tamlen found that eluvian. Either way, that simple path of a normal Dalish life did end for you, even though you did not die. This is the path you were meant to follow, no matter how treacherous it has been or will be.”

“I can’t accept—”

“Accept one thing. Accept a single step. More steps will follow, and the walking will become easier along the way. The beginning is the most difficult part of the journey.”

Líadan gripped the mug of tea as if it were the only thing keeping her afloat. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand how having a human’s child, how bonding with a human, are not actions of an exile.” _Convince me, at least a little. Give me at least a start at finding my certainty again._

“Even if you chose not to bond with him, through this child, you will always be connected to him. Aside from the guilt, aside from fear of becoming an exile—which you will not be—there is no reason for you not to accept him. You love him. He loves you. Ignoring human and _elvhen_ , you are a good match.” Lanaya pushed her mug aside and leaned forward on her elbows. “I told you once before at Drake’s Fall, that even though the Wardens are your clan, you are Dalish. Even if you are bonded to a human and help care for his child, you are still Dalish. Even though you’ve chosen to bear his second child, you are still Dalish. You always will be. There are things that render clan and race unimportant, and this child will be one of them. This child will be an agent of change—this child is destined for things beyond concepts of human and _elvhen_. This is not something that should be burdened with guilt. It is hope, for both humans and elves, and perhaps Thedas.”

Then the Keeper reached behind her, picked up the bow, and placed it on the table between herself and Líadan. “Allow yourself hope. Go to him.”


	10. Chapter 10

“In uncertainty, find infinite possibility.” ****

— _an old Orlesian saying_

**Malcolm**

****He remained sitting under the tree in the garden, thumping the back of his head repeatedly against the trunk. He’d made a huge tactical error and forgotten how flighty Líadan could be, forgotten how the touch of wildness from her Dalish upbringing had never entirely gone away. That the instinct to fight or flee took over when she was pushed beyond her limit in dealing with emotions of the strong and particularly vulnerable kind. _How_ he had misread the situation and thought she would be even maybe slightly open to the idea of bonding when she wasn’t, he didn’t know. But he had. And she’d fled.

Right.

He hit his head again—not hard enough to do damage, but enough to remind him that he was an idiot—and decided that he’d have to kill the King. After that, the teyrn of Highever, and after that, Oghren. He stopped hitting his head and stood, realizing he had better things to do, more distracting things to do, than to wonder when or if Líadan would come back after he’d chased her away like that. Malcolm stooped and picked up the case she’d left behind, surprised that she’d taken the bow with her. Part of him wondered if she even realized it herself. Judging by her demeanor when she’d left, most likely not.

Tucking the case under his arm, he strode purposefully toward the keep.

Earlier, Malcolm had noticed Líadan returning from the town with Lanaya as he walked the battlements with Fergus, assessing the damage and speaking with the dwarves Fergus had contracted for the reconstruction—the same ones who had helped rebuild the first time. He’d nearly called to her, but then saw that Hildur had summoned her over. Almost immediately, the two of them had walked away, deep in conversation. He’d shrugged, and then had given his attention back to Fergus and the rebuilding of Highever.

Now he wondered what all that had really been about. Shrugging again, he stored the case in Fergus’ study once more before setting out in earnest to find his brothers.

Dinner was long since over, as was the nightly gathering in the main hall. Malcolm caught Alistair and Fergus just as they were exiting the room. Oghren was nowhere in sight, but Malcolm decided he could get to the dwarf later. His brothers would do quite nicely for now. He threw an arm around each of their shoulders, one on each side, their necks on the insides of his elbows, and his hold just tight enough to let them know he wasn’t quite kidding around. At Anora’s raised eyebrow at his behavior, he flashed her a smile. “Don’t worry. Just taking your husband the King for a nice little chat.”

Before Anora could reply, Fergus said, “I think he means the kind of chat with fists.”

“Ah,” said Anora. “Is this... this is a brother thing, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” said Malcolm.

Anora nodded. “Well, then. Carry on.”

With that, Malcolm partially dragged and partially walked his two loving brothers through the main corridor, out the main doors, and into the yard. Once in the yard, he led them over to the practice ring. Real weapons would result in fratricide, so wooden ones would have to do. He let them go and hopped the fence into the ring. 

Fergus jumped in right behind him, but Alistair halted after he’d put one hand on the top rail, and narrowed his eyes at Malcolm. “All right, what’s this about?”

Malcolm walked over to the weapon rack, not bothering to look at either of his brothers. “Your advice.” He drew out one of the practice swords and gave it a swing. No, not the right balance. He selected another. “Your stupid, stupid advice.”

“My—uh-oh. What happened?”

The second sword he’d picked also had the wrong balance. Annoyed, he threw the sword-shaped piece of wood back into the bin, making all the practice swords rattle against each other. Maybe he’d just have to use his fists. No. No, because that would be following Fergus’ advice, and he was totally over and done with that. “Not what you thought would happen, that’s for certain.”

“So you asked, then?” Fergus asked from behind him, but from the position of his voice, Malcolm could tell he was out of striking distance. Damn him.

“Yes.” Fourth practice sword he picked up had a balance somewhat close to the sword he normally carried into battle. He moved on to the battered shields.

“And it went badly, I take it?” asked Alistair, who it sounded like had finally gotten into the practice ring and was walking closer.

“Oh, yes. As in ‘I might never see her again’ kind of bad.” Malcolm began to heft each shield, searching for one to match the weight of his usual one.

“Maker’s breath, what did you _say_?” asked Fergus.

The insinuation that blame lay with him made Malcolm turn around and glare at the both of them. “Nothing bad, if that’s what you’re trying to say. Sure, I ended up babbling, but I always do that. And it works with her, given she listens long enough. Which I really thought she had since I carried on for a while. In the end, I managed to get to the asking part. Then she stared at me. And kept staring. At first I thought she was just shocked because she still looked at me like she loved me. Then she just kept staring at me like I’d grown two extra heads and a tail and I started to wonder if I’d been right about seeing the love in that particular look at that particular time in the first place. So my heart starts feeling like it’s going to shrivel up and die because she just _kept staring_ and not saying a word. Then her eyes went wide and she up and ran.”

Fergus scratched at his goatee. “That can’t be good.”

Alistair looked from Malcolm to Fergus and back again. “Why would she run? I don’t understand. She hasn’t done something like that in forever. Maybe if it were one or two years ago, I could see it, but not now.”

Malcolm threw his hands in the air, letting the practice sword fall from his fingers. “It’s a question for the ages, isn’t it?”

“I suppose she wasn’t ready to be asked,” said Fergus. “I could have sworn...”

“Yes, well, you were wrong.” After retrieving the sword from the ground, Malcolm returned to the shields. “Not about the swearing. Lots of swearing. Heaps of swearing.”

“So now you’re going to what, beat us up?” asked Alistair.

“That’s the plan.” Malcolm grabbed another shield, slid it onto his arm, and was pleased with the weight and balance. He spun around to face his brothers again. “Because I can’t chase after her. One, I can’t catch up with her because she runs way faster than I do. Two, because it will just make it worse and she’ll end up running faster and farther. Three, because if she really does love me, she’ll come back on her own, however much it sucks to wait here. Whaling on the two of you is my distraction. It’s either that or cry, and I don’t want to do that because I’ve had enough embarrassment for one night.”

“Fair enough,” Fergus said with a shrug before stepping over to the weapon racks to pick out his own.

“What?” Alistair shot a bewildered look at Fergus’ back. “You’re just going to accept this for what it is? And then let him hit you?”

“I won’t _let_ him hit me,” Fergus said over his shoulder. “I’m getting a practice sword and shield of my own. If he wants to hit me, he’ll have to work for it, like always. You can feel free to go weaponless and let him knock you around if it pleases you, Your Majesty, but I’m not about to just let my little brother beat me up.”

“No blood,” said Malcolm. “Just a few bruises. Possibly more than a few.”

Fergus smiled at him. “You’re so kind.”

“So, this is entirely normal behavior?” asked Alistair, who still hadn’t made a single move toward the weapon racks.

“Completely,” came Oghren’s voice from just outside the ring. “Also a warrior caste kind of thing if you’re too pissed to just get drunk with your brothers.”

Malcolm whirled around and pointed at Oghren. “Dwarf! Get in here. You’re on my list, too.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Oghren said as he clambered up and over the fence. “I was all jealous that you three were going to spar without me.” As he landed feet-first in the ring, he seemed to remember that most people needed reasons to spar at the time of night when most people were heading to bed. “There a reason for all this fighting or we just having fun because we’re out of ale?”

Fergus gave Oghren a look of alarm. “We’re out of ale?”

“Not as far as I know, but I figured you’d have better knowledge of that than me. And it’d be enough to make brothers go for a round. Better pissed one way than not one at all, I say.” He frowned and considered Malcolm for a moment. “So, what’s got the little blighter’s smalls in a twist?”

“He asked her,” said Alistair.

“And her answer was to get up and run away,” said Fergus.

“Really?”

“Do you honestly think I’d be like this were it not true?” Malcolm asked as he warmed up, swinging his arms in circles and then twisting his torso side to side before jumping in place a few times.

“No, not without good reason. Well, at least a reason that seems good to you, anyway.” Unruffled by Malcolm’s frustration, Oghren strolled over to the weapon racks and began perusing them. “Wonder why she ran. Not like her. She’s been ready for you to ask at least since right before we left on that delightful pirate’s ship.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow at Malcolm. “Pirate? You never mentioned traveling with pirates.”

“She was a merchant at the time. Of legal goods and passengers. No pirating was to be had while we were aboard. I can’t vouch for afterward, however,” said Malcolm. He went through a few forms as he waited for the others to sodding pick their weapons. It was taking them forever.

“You say something mean?” asked Oghren. “Not on purpose. I mean, by accident, like you usually do. You know, when you have to chew your foot.”

“I have to admit, Malcolm, you do have a certain propensity for putting your foot in your mouth,” said Fergus.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Oh, blow it out your ass. Are you ready yet or not?”

“Ha! That’s more like it!” Oghren gave the maul he’d picked out a good twirl. “So are we going to fight or are we going to stand around and prattle like old women?”

Malcolm raised his shield, set his feet, and readied his sword. “Bring it, dwarf.”

Oghren shook his corked practice maul. “You’re on, nug-licker.”

They crashed together, shield deflecting the maul, sword bouncing off Oghren’s arm, and Malcolm started to feel somewhat better. Fergus joined in, and when he noticed Alistair hadn’t, he forcibly dragged the King into the mess of a melee. They continued trading blows and barbs until each of them were breathing hard and sweat dripped from their faces, and then kept going.

“All of you stop, right this instant!”

The command came with such a distinct note of disapproval and scolding—one it sometimes seemed only mothers truly possessed—that it made each warrior instinctively do as they were told.

They stopped.

Then they looked over, almost as one, to see Wynne huddled in her cloak and stalking toward them from the main yard. The nearly full moon served to light her scathing glare quite well. She continued her scolding after she reached the fence, lowering the volume of her voice as she did. “All of you know better. It’s far too late at night for you to be outside fighting. And don’t any of you try to tell me this is sparring, because I know fighting when I see it. You’ve already woken me up, and you’ll wake others if you insist on continuing this foolishness. Inside. All of you.” Without waiting for protest or acknowledgement, she turned on her heel and walked away, toward the grounds behind the keep.

Fergus stared after her. “I swear to the Maker, for a moment there, it was like Mother returned from the dead.”

“If she returned from the dead,” said Malcolm, “I’d hope the first thing she’d do wouldn’t be to scold us.”

Fergus started toward the weapon racks. “She would if she caught us fighting like this.”

Malcolm sighed. “You make a good point.”

“This mean a truce then?” asked Alistair. “Because I’m still not sure what we were fighting about.”

“Those are the best fights,” said Oghren.

Malcolm looked to where Wynne had gone. “For now.” Then he returned the sword and shield to where he’d gotten them and hopped out of the practice yard. He didn’t look back. Not knowing where else to go, he started for the keep. He had to admit, he hadn’t thought Líadan would be gone this long, not with night having fallen. Well, he hadn’t thought she’d be gone this long if she ever intended to return. Wait, no. She’d return. She wouldn’t go back on her promise to Morrigan about Cáel.

Cáel. That’s where he could go. Panowen and Ariane had to be back, and if they and Cáel were awake, he could see his son. See the small person who would reassure him that Líadan would return.

He arrived in the family quarters to find them empty. No Kennard outside the door, no Ariane, no Panowen, and no Cáel. He assumed they were staying in the Dalish camp overnight, then, attending to whatever duties they had to the clan. No Revas, either, but Malcolm assumed she was at the kennels with Gunnar, or both mabari were out with the Dalish and watching over Cáel. Disappointment dashed over him, followed by a strange sort of loneliness. 

Eventually, he made his way out to the cliffs, knowing that if Líadan chose to find him, she would look there first. He sat with his feet dangling off the edge, uncaring if she found him like that and got angry, because it would mean she’d returned and still cared about him enough to yell. He also wanted to be close to his son, at least as close as he could get without being a trespasser in the Dalish camp. It would feel too strange to enter one without Líadan with him.

As he sat listening to the waves hit the cliffs, he heard people coming and going from the camp. At one point, he recognized the silhouettes: Wynne and Líadan. He said nothing and remained still. If she were ready to speak with him, she would find him. He’d already pushed her too far once that day, and he had no intention of doing so again. He would rather things go left unsaid and slightly unsure than lose her entirely because he pushed the issue.

It was a long time before he heard footsteps behind him. Then a familiar voice, hoarse from whatever turmoil he’d caused, said quietly, “That isn’t really a safe place to sit.”

“I’ve sat here plenty of times before.” A smile, there and gone in an instant, twitched at his lips. Then he turned to face her, noting that she still held the bow he’d given her. Her eyes, far more tired than before, still carried much of the pain he’d seen earlier. He wanted to fix it, to fix whatever had broken within her when he’d opened his stupid mouth. “I take it back. We can just go back to the way things were and pretend I never, ever asked that really stupid question. If it freaks you out so much that you run, obviously it isn’t something to be considered. So, I’m sorry and... well, sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Her voice still sounded broken and her gaze never stayed on him. She seemed to search for him, be drawn to look at him, and then her eyes would skitter over him and to the sea beyond, until they looked for him again. 

He tilted his head. “No? I haven’t seen you panic like that in a long time. You sprinted away faster than a deer chased by a hound, and disappeared in the forest just as easily. I’d forgotten you were a very good hunter. _Are_ a very good hunter.”

“You had nothing to do with how I reacted. Not intentionally.” She sat next to him, shoulder and leg touching his, not shying away. The bow rested in her lap, her fingers loosening from the grip to ply at the wood. “And I don’t want you to take it back. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s going to make things really awkward. You’ll stay, but you won’t bond with me. Or marry me, or whatever. You won’t make anything official, but you’ll stay. How does that even...” Then he remembered how it felt with her gone, and realized it didn’t matter. “Nevermind. Whatever makes you choose to stay is fine by me. I can live with the awkward of you saying no.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“Stop being obtuse.” She brought her legs up to sit cross-legged, and then turned her whole body to face him. He kept his gaze on the dark sea, unwilling to let himself hope, not after it had been mercilessly crushed earlier. She reached out and lightly touched his ear closest to her, tracing the round part of it, drew her palm across the stubble on his cheek, and then lowered her hand to rest on his forearm. “I will bond with you.”

His head snapped around, a thrill of excitement running through him even as he told himself he must have misheard. “Really? I thought—”

She kissed him, her other hand coming around to grasp the back of his neck and pull him down to her level. Almost instantly, he knew had hadn’t misheard. She loved him and she would stay with him and he felt it through her lips. The kiss started out gentle, tentative, and when he returned it, she deepened it, as if desperate to prove herself and her connection with him. Then as quickly as she had moved, she drew away, allowing the hand on his neck to drop onto his where it rested on his leg. “I love you, and I do want to be with you. I just... I hadn’t expected you to ask, almost ever. If you had asked me yesterday, my reaction would have been different. I don’t think I would have run away. But after everything that happened today, I couldn’t... I couldn’t cope with that one last thing rolling around in my head. I had to sort myself out, I think.”

He frowned, realizing just how little of her he’d seen that day, and wondering what had occurred to affect her this much. “What happened?”

“I went down to the alienage with Lanaya to find a nurse for Cáel. Wynne had given me a lead she’d gotten from Fergus. The elves there... they didn’t react well to seeing two Dalish elves in their home.”

“I hadn’t realized Highever’s alienage was that different from Denerim.” Malcolm wondered if Fergus had any idea what was going on down there, or if he’d thought about implementing in Highever the changes Alistair had made in Denerim.

“Neither had I. Some were openly hostile and aggressively questioned our presence. And then someone figured out who I was, and instead of being mostly okay with me since I’m a Warden, they didn’t change their sentiment. They only saw the Dalish, nothing else. And then... then they repeated rumors to me, right out in the open. Accused me of not even being elven because of—”

“Me.” They’d had this conversation before, more than once. It hadn’t been an issue since she’d finally visited her birth clan for the first time since the Blight, but he could easily see what had made it rise to the surface again.

“More my choice to be with you rather than you personally.” Líadan’s tone became neutral, almost devoid of emotion, as if she were trying to separate herself entirely from the words she had to say. “A woman was about to call me your whore before she was interrupted.”

Guilt wrapped around him, heavy as a winter cloak. “You aren’t, you know.”

She nodded while biting her lip, which he recognized as an attempt to keep from crying, especially on seeing the redness around her eyes. Then she said, “I know. You know. Our friends and family know. But to people on the outside, they see an elf with their human prince, a pairing with no hope of permanency because of who we are. I’m in the way, a mistress, and it unsettles them.”

“So we’ll bond and then they can’t call you that or see you as that. What we have will be validated in everyone’s eyes.”

“Maybe.” Her gaze slipped over to the sea. “Maybe if I were not a mage.” She let out a long, steadying breath before returning her look to him. “You and Alistair can’t openly defy the Chantry, not after the past year. Maybe an appeal can be made, asking for a them to make an exception—I don’t know what the technical term for that is in your religion—but again, after last year, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Then why are you agreeing to bond with me?” _Why in the name of Andraste am I trying to talk her out of it?_

“Because I’ll know. The Dalish will know. Friends and some family will know, but not Alistair. Like when you couldn’t tell him about Fiona, he can’t know here. He needs plausible deniability for the sake of Ferelden in case the Chantry finds out about the bonding.”

He wanted to argue, but he knew she was right. Not with the Divine coming to visit, not with the Chantry itching to declare an Exalted March on them. He sighed. No use in continuing on that path. “The elves at the alienage... they said you weren’t elven? Like Velanna used to say to you?”

“Close enough. And they didn’t even know yet that I had agreed to be Cáel’s mother. So when you asked me to bond, to take another step away from being Dalish as I was raised to be, I couldn’t handle the guilt. Even after speaking with Lanaya at length tonight, where she assured me that I won’t be betraying my people, that I won’t be exiled, the guilt still shadows me.”

“All because you agreed to help a friend? Because you’re agreeing to bond with me?” It didn’t seem like enough, to him, to have her this... Maker, it was almost like she was actually _fragile_ , which he’d never associated with her, or even thought possible for her to appear so. He’d witnessed her take on more difficult emotional situations, like when they returned to the Mahariel. Maybe he’d missed something, spoken too softly for him to hear.

She looked away, down at the sea roiling around the rocks below them, and folded her hands over her bow. “No. There’s something else.”

Frigid fear tumbled over him, leaving his skin numb and his heart racing. She’d been walking with Wynne and he’d glimpsed her speaking with Hildur. It was probably Warden-related then. Maybe her exhaustion was the taint spreading quicker than normal. “Do I want to know?”

“I don’t know, but you should know.”

Her Calling would be early, he knew it. Her exhaustion had to be from poor sleep riddled with nightmares he hadn’t known about, stricken with the song of the Old Gods, and she would be going on her Calling without him because they both couldn’t leave Cáel behind, not while he was this young. Malcolm had assumed they’d leave him far into the future, when he was an adult and able to at least understand what was happening. He’d always assumed, after traveling to Weisshaupt with her, that they would take their Calling at the same time, the two of them together with Alistair. “What?” he asked so quietly that he wasn’t sure if it even qualified as a whisper.

Her fingers twisted together. “Sundermount... it... with the thin Veil and inherent ancient arcane power, it... allows, possibly even makes, things happen that should not be so.” 

The last time he’d heard Líadan’s speech this halting and stilted had been when she’d told him his mother had died. Unable to grapple with his fear, he retreated into humor. “That would explain the size of the spider we found.” 

Her eyes darted upward as she gave him a tiny, amused smile. Then she looked away again. “It also... the time we... to show Fenarel that... and apparently that sort of thing should not occur on, around, or anywhere near Sundermount.”

“You mean when we fought him?” Sweet Maker, was she trying to tell him she’d been possessed by a demon that slipped through the Veil due to all the fighting?

“No.” 

All right, no demon. He felt marginally better.

She set her bow on the grass by her side opposite the cliff. Then she uncrossed her legs and drew them up to her body before resting her face just above her knees. She mumbled something, but it was muffled.

“What?” asked Malcolm.

Líadan lifted her head just enough to make her words clear. “You know that truth where it’s not possible for Wardens to have children together?”

Not quite following, but he rolled with it. “Yes. I mean, we all do. It isn’t like Alistair and I don’t get reminded about it all the time by people who know and have this hang up about Theirin heirs.” He refused to mention Eamon by name. Refused.

“Well, Sundermount made it a lie. At least, that’s what Lanaya told me this morning, and Wynne confirmed it tonight. It’s why I’ve been so tired.”

“A lie? Not...” Relief chased away the cold fear that she wasn’t heading for an early Calling. Then hope began welling within him once again as he puzzled out what he _thought_ she was saying while trying to do the mental gymnastics required to figure out how it was even possible. “So you...”

She let her head drop back onto her legs, again muffling her reply.

“What was that?” He brought himself up to his knees and turned to face her fully. 

Líadan grumbled, sighed, and then barely picked her head up enough to make eye contact with him. “I—we—defied the odds. So to speak.” She softly bumped her head against her knees. “Creators, I still can’t even say it out loud.”

Malcolm caught her with one hand under her jaw on an upswing, his other hand settling on her cheek. He was beyond happy at the realization that his assumption had been correct; he’d barely even dared to hope. “So you are? We are?” 

Her eyes showed only a speck of enthusiasm at the revelation, nowhere near his level. He honestly couldn’t quite tell if she were going to smile, cry, or both. Her nod was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

He wanted to take her into his arms and share his happiness, but he recognized, quite clearly, that she did not feel the same way. The news was the source of what had completely unraveled her composure. He brushed a thumb on her cheek, just under her tattoo. “Are you okay?”

Her brow furrowed. “No. Yes. Maybe eventually.” She looked at him. “What about you?”

Malcolm couldn’t help the grin he gave her—the same stupid happy grin he’d had when he’d first held Cáel. “More than okay. Ecstatic. Giddy would be the term, I believe.” Then his grin faded as his concern for her well being overtook how he felt about the situation. “But I won’t stay that way unless _you’re_ okay with it. And from what I saw earlier, and knowing what I do now, I’m not sure you are. And, you even said as much.” He spun on his knees, moved the bow out of the way, and sat down next to her. The giddiness had left entirely, replaced with worry. “I remember all the times you talked about how it was okay for you to be with me because you couldn’t have children. And now...”

“There will be a child,” she said, sounding like each word scratched at her throat on the way out.

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against his side. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it was a few hours ago.” She lifted her head and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Lanaya believes I’ll be okay with it in time. _She_ was perfectly fine with it, by the way.”

“So you have the approval of at least one Keeper.”

“Which is why it isn’t as bad as it was.” Done fidgeting with her hair, she rested her head on his shoulder, linking one of her arms through his.

“But you still worry about what Marethari would think, don’t you?”

“As stupid and irrational as it is, yes.”

“Well, look at it this way. If she finds out and disapproves, she couldn’t possibly ever request again that you become her First.”

A reluctant chuckle escaped her mouth. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

He nodded to himself. “Leave it to me to make a positive out of a negative by figuring out how to annoy someone with it.” He shifted at the cold that’d finally started seeping into the seat of his breeches. “I don’t know about you, but I’d love to go inside. I desperately need a bath.”

She looked at him and wrinkled her nose. “I thought something smelled a bit rank.”

“Not nice.” He helped her to her feet as he stood. Before he could bring himself to head toward the keep, he pulled her fully into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, reveling in the smell and feeling of _her_. She’d come back.

And she would stay.


	11. Chapter 11

“A mage who does not receive the teachings of the Circle and who does not have the words of Andraste in her heart is an apostate, and a danger to us all. Without the guidance of the holy Chantry, a mage may foolishly dabble in the darker arts—blood magic, or demon summoning, thus becoming maleficarum. And a mage’s mind will ever be a doorway to spirits of the Fade; without proper instruction, this doorway remains open and unsecured. If a demon should come through this doorway and possess a mage, an abomination is created. Abominations know only madness. They cannot be reasoned with and will slaughter man, woman and child without thought. Whole cities have fallen to these creatures. Thousands have died at their hands. ****

The Chantry and her templars have a duty to ensure that this does not happen.

If I knew a better way to deal with magic, I would seize upon it immediately. You say we should let the mages guard themselves. I tell you that this is no solution. Look at the Tevinter Imperium. Their magisters do not know restraint. Without Chantry oversight the magisters abuse their power. Those without magic are trampled underfoot and forced to serve. Slaves are slaughtered by the hundreds to feed the magisters’ hunger for power. Even some mages are not spared, for in mages as in all humans, there exists a spectrum—on one end, the very powerful, on the other, those that can barely light a candle. The Empire cares only for the strongest, and those who do not compare favorably are thrown to the wolves.

Imagine your children growing up in such a world. If a mage asked it of you, you would have to give him your daughter, not knowing what his plans for her might be. You could not resist him, and neither could she. Without our templars and without the Circle, the common man would have no defense against magic. We must deny the mages certain freedoms for the common good. I wish there was another way. I tell the apprentices this is a test of their faith, that it is the will of the Maker. Many understand that we do what we do for their own good.”

— _excerpt of a letter from Grand Cleric Francesca of Starkhaven to Lord Guthrie Abholz_

**Meghan**

Within days, templars caught them. They came unexpectedly from the west; the mages had only kept watch behind them, to the north. Meghan quickly noticed that the templars who were now their captors were of a very different sort than Ser Niven. Not only were they less respectful of the mages—she would even say they had no respect for them at all—they were also rough in their handling. At first, Meghan had decided to keep her identity to herself, not knowing if these men and women would act as the Grand Cleric had and hand her over to her family’s assassins. But when they treated her just like the mages with whom she kept company, acted as if she were a mage herself, she spoke up. 

“Do you realize who I am?” she asked the man who seemed to be in charge. The other templars seemed to be following his directions to surround the gathered mages without complaint.

He raised an eyebrow at what he perceived as her impertinence. Then one corner of his mouth curled, as if he’d decided Meghan’s indignance were entertainment. “I’d thought you a mage, but it’s clear you think otherwise. Who do you believe you are, mage?”

Meghan squared her shoulders and drew herself to her full height. “Princess Meghan Vael of Starkhaven.”

The man outright laughed. “Right. And I’m the Empress of Orlais. Nice try. Everyone knows Meghan Vael was killed along with the rest of her family a few days ago. There’s some question as to whether she died in the castle or managed to run into the city square before the assassins caught up with her, but she’s dead all the same, according to the Grand Cleric’s testimony. ”

It seemed Grand Cleric Francesca had betrayed her in more than one way. “Who are you really?”

“Knight-Lieutenant Karras,” said the man, the amusement fading from his dark eyes. “And who are _you_ , really?”

She sighed, ignoring the motions Terrie was making in the background for her to shut up and let it go. “I already told you. Princess Meghan Vael of Starkhaven.”

Ser Karras’ eyes narrowed, his mouth turning downward into a snarl. “And we’ve established that a lie, _Princess_. Now get with the other mages before I lose my patience and show you your true place.”

Meghan opened her mouth to continue, but closed it when another templar took her by the arm and led her away. “You’d best do as he says,” said the older man, his grip on her arm not bruising, but tight enough to keep her from running back to Ser Karras. “He is not a man to be trifled with, young lady. You would not want to experience what happens when he loses his temper. It would not end well for you.”

She turned to look in askance at the older templar, surprised that he would know of such harmful things occurring, yet not doing anything to stop them. Instead of stopping his brother templar’s inexcusable behavior, he implored her to change her own reasonable behavior. Ridiculous. And yet, when she looked at him, at the blue eyes bright even though they were surrounded by tired lines of long years in the Chantry’s service, she was reminded of her family. This templar had not been unkind, had not mocked, like Ser Karras had. He had not even treated her roughly, as the rest of the templars had in rounding up their little group. “But I _am_ Meghan Vael,” she said, hoping that this man could prevail upon the other to see the truth.

Yet when he slowly shook his head, pity showed in his eyes, a close second in insult to Ser Karras’ disdain. “And I am Ser Thrask. Perhaps after some time, you will regain your wits and remember who you are.”

There was nothing she could do. Meghan jerked her arm out of Ser Thrask’s grasp and stalked over to where the mages stood. “There is no reasoning with them,” she said in a frustrated whisper to Terrie.

“They are templars,” Terrie replied, as if that were an entirely satisfactory explanation.

Meghan was finally beginning to see that it was.

It wasn’t until after two more days of southerly travel that Meghan got another opportunity to approach Ser Karras. She would have approached Ser Thrask, but it had become apparent that the quiet, yet moderate older templar would not speak up, even if he did believe her. So any time pleading her case with him was wasted, and her time was quickly running out. 

“Knight-Lieutenant Karras,” she said when he walked by after speaking with a templar actively guarding them, “I would like to have a word with you.”

He stopped and faced her, the faint amusement again showing on his face. “And what do you have to say to me, Princess?” It was clear from the snide way he said her title that he still did not believe her. No matter. He would eventually be convinced.

“Do you believe me to be a mage?”

Both of Ser Karras’ eyebrows lifted in true surprise before they descended into a glower. “Is that a trick question?”

“No, it is not. I’ve told you before—”

“And I did not believe you. I still don’t, mage.”

Utterly exasperated, Meghan threw her arms into the air. “I’m not a mage! Test me, if you must, to prove it. Surely you can do such things.” She’d heard rumors of it before, when the Chantry’s templars investigated if Prince Malcolm of Ferelden was a mage himself. It had never been terribly clear what had happened to prove he wasn’t, but eventually the Chantry had dropped the matter, having decided he was not an apostate after all. 

“They cannot,” said Grace from her seat near the fire. “There is no test for whether or not one is a mage. A mage uses magic, either a child by accident—as one is usually first brought to the Circle—or an apostate attempting to escape the Chantry’s watchdogs. Either way, the magic is always there. All the templars need do is observe it.”

Meghan looked from Grace’s sympathetic face to Ser Karras’ hard one. “Is this true? There is no test?”

“None,” he said. “None aside from waiting for you to falter in your resolve not to use magic. Nothing else is good enough.”

She frowned. “Then how... how did the Chantry test to see whether or not Prince Malcolm Theirin was not a mage?”

“How should I know?” asked Ser Karras. “I wasn’t there.”

“They used the Harrowing,” said another one of the templars nearby. At Ser Karras’ frown at her, she brushed an errant piece of black hair off her face. “What? I heard it from some Orlesian templar who’d been sent to the Grey Wardens for his role in the matter. Ran into the group of Wardens in Ostwick during my trip to my new posting with you lot.”

“The Harrowing?” asked Meghan, wondering if the trial was as foreboding as its name.

“You know exactly what that is,” said Ser Karras. “And you know such a thing should never be attempted in the field. If you insist on continuing this farce of yours, you can plead your case with Knight-Commander Meredith once we’re in Kirkwall.”

Surely, a Knight-Commander would recognize her for who she was, or at least investigate the veracity of her claim. Meghan nodded to the Knight-Lieutenant, satisfied with the outcome thus far. As long as she would be given the opportunity to appeal to a true authority, she would drop the subject as they traveled. It wasn’t until early the next morning that she had her mind changed for her. Terrie had managed to get herself placed next to Meghan in their forced march, and the two of them were in the middle of the grouped mages. This gave them privacy if they spoke in very low tones. At first, neither of them took advantage of it, both keeping their silence as they trudged along the Tevinter road leading to Kirkwall.

Then Terrie said in a whisper, “Knight-Commander Meredith will believe your claim no more than Ser Karras has.”

Meghan frowned and shot a questioning look at Terrie. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve not heard the rumors, then. I suppose it makes sense, given that you were never involved with matters of the Circle before. It’s said that Meredith is stricter and harsher than even the templars at the White Spire in Val Royeaux. The Circle of Magi in Kirkwall is housed in the Gallows, and they have almost no rights. More mages are made Tranquil in Kirkwall than the rest of Thedas combined, I’ve heard. If Meredith is told you are a mage, she will not hear your plea. She will not believe you even if she listens to you. You will be locked in the Gallows the same as we would be. If she thinks you’re a threat, you’ll be executed, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you’ll be made Tranquil. Not sure how that works for non-mages, but we all go to the Fade in our dreams, and I’ve heard that not dreaming can drive a person insane. So there’s that.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Despair had crawled through Meghan as she listened to Terrie’s words, despair that she’d never escape death, that she should have remained at her family’s castle and accepted her death then. Better than continuing to extend the torture, as she was.

“I didn’t want you to have false hope. And,” Terrie said, glancing furtively in both directions before continuing in an even quieter tone, “I didn’t want you to choose to remain behind later today, when the rest of us leave.”

“Ah. So you’ll be... right. Why? Because of what you just told me?”

“We’ll either be executed or made Tranquil once we’re brought to Kirkwall. Some of us would have accepted returning to Starkhaven, but after what Ser Karras said, it’s clear that isn’t an option. Since we have no wish to die or be cut off from the Fade, we’ll have to free ourselves before it comes to that. You are still welcome to accompany us, and I would encourage you to do so if you wish to live.”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

Terrie had nothing to say to that, and they walked onward.

Despite the dark thoughts she’d had of accepting death, when faced with the choice, Meghan chose to run. It happened more quickly than she’d expected, and in a far different way. She’d thought there’d be a harmless, magical distraction, followed by the mages running while the templars were otherwise engaged. Instead, as they walked past a stone marker for a long-past battlefield, there was movement out of the corner of her eye. A shout, a flash of blood, and then the dead rose from the ground. The skeletons let out unworldly shrieks as they advanced, war cries of the dead, protests at being made to walk the earth once more.

They fell upon the templars, hacking away with rusty weapons.

“Run!” shouted Grace, who then dashed south, into the forest across from the battlefield. The rest of the mages followed without hesitation.

Meghan remained in the middle of the road, her mouth hanging partially open at the savagery of the undead. But when one of the skeletons turned from the melee with the templars and started towards her, death staring her in the face, she ran, following the same path as the mages had before her. She caught up with them, and they ran for the rest of the day. Some of the mages cast alternating spells of rejuvenation and haste—as was breathlessly explained to her—to keep them ahead of any surviving templars. Meghan did her best to hide their trail, but her fieldcraft was shoddy compared to Sebastian’s, even though he’d attempted to teach her many times. Only when the mages could cast no more spells did they stop to rest, dropping to the soft forest floor under the canopy of trees where they’d halted. Fingers of light from the moon directly overhead stretched through the branches, making it just bright enough to see.

Aside from heavy breathing and gulps at the waterskins given to them by templars the day before, there was silence for a time. Then Innley was on his feet and pointing at Decimus. “You’re a blood mage!” he yelled, heedless of the need for quiet. His eyes went wide as he realized, and he dropped to a harsh whisper. “A blood mage!”

“Like you didn’t know,” said Grace.

Decimus seemed unbothered by Innley’s anger, regarding the other mage with incredible calm. “The templars will label us blood mages since we fled, so why not use it if it’s our best tool?”

“It isn’t for some of us,” said Terrie. “Were I to use it, I would lose my ability to heal. I _like_ that ability. I’m good at it. Very good.”

“I believe it’s a lie propagated by the Chantry that healers lose their ability to heal if they employ blood magic,” said Grace. “It makes no sense. The use of blood to fuel spells really is no different in application than using mana or lyrium. It’s a tool. A powerful tool, but a tool nonetheless. You could probably heal even better were you to use blood magic. Perhaps even draw a soul back to its body just after its fled.”

“Because the dead are obviously so happy to be alive again,” said Innley.

Grace rolled her eyes. “I meant the recently expired, you dolt.”

Meghan stared, unable to believe how they could discuss something as evil as _blood magic_ so casually. Magic was one thing. Magic, she did not fear. Blood magic, however, was the stuff of nightmares. Blood magic meant undead, meant demons and possession and abominations and probably her death. Funny how all roads seemed to lead there. She wanted to run from them, but assumed that if they caught her, she’d be the next source of blood for one of Decimus’ nasty spells.

When the others slept for the next few hours, she did not. Neither did Alain, she noticed, meeting his gaze only once as they both sat and shivered and remained wary. The moon was still out and the sky still black when the rest of the mages awakened, and Grace got them underway again. Meghan hadn’t failed to note the dynamic. Decimus had the power; Grace led. She wondered why, since it didn’t seem like either one of them had any charisma. They inspired nothing within her, and from the sullen looks at least half the mages gave them, they weren’t inspired, either. 

Their pace was just short of what they’d maintained the day before, the rain that started mid-morning hampering their efforts, along with the lack of supplies. Fear could only drive them so far until the need for sustenance took over and flagged their reserves of energy. 

By the next day, they’d moved beyond hungry. Magic could do many things, Meghan learned, but it could not conjure food out of nowhere. There was plenty of water, gathered from the unending rain and swollen streams, but the same rain and flooded streams made fishing impossible. It also didn’t help that none of them possessed any survival skills. Meghan had never gone hunting with her brothers, and despite growing up in a fishing city, she had never properly learned to fish. The best she could do was guess, and that was a step up on the mages, who’d spent most of their lives enclosed by the Circle’s walls. 

“I’d been at the Circle since I was six,” Alain said after Meghan asked. “It wasn’t the best life, but we never had to get our own food.” His stomach growled, and his mouth twisted in regret. “Part of me wishes I was there now. I would be warm and dry and full.”

“Also not in the company of blood mages.” Meghan pulled the string out of the stream. Fishing here was a futile effort and she didn’t feel like wasting more time on futility. 

Alain shivered, and not from the damp cold. “That, too.”

It didn’t help that templars had survived the assault of the undead, and were closing in on their small group. Grace continued to lead them south, Decimus using more of the raising the dead spell to delay their pursuers. The rain let up and they were able to increase their pace, if just barely, but it was enough to stay ahead. They only stopped when they encountered the glittering ocean, having run out of distance to put between them and the templars.

“Blast,” said Innley. “We’re screwed. We might as well drown ourselves in that ocean for all the good it’ll do. The templars will kill us. We’ve nowhere to run.”

“We can hold out in a cave,” said Decimus. “I can keep the templars out.”

“Meanwhile, we’ll starve in there,” said Terrie. “Hiding does us no good if we die.”

Grace studied the cliffs behind them, as if already searching for a suitable cave. “At least we’d die on our own terms.”

“I never wanted to die hungry,” said Innley.

One of the other mages sighed. “Either shut up or jump in the sodding ocean. I’m tired of hearing your whining.”

In the end, the templars made the decision for them, running along the path the mages had used, swords drawn, Ser Karras leading the way. Grace commanded the mages to follow her and Decimus, and they did. So did Meghan, not wanting to die by Ser Karras’ hand. Before she ducked into the cave behind Terrie, she saw that Ser Thrask had survived the undead attack, and she felt a little less doomed. 

It wasn’t until they were in the main cavern, Decimus having set several traps along the way to kill any adventurous templars, that they noticed Alain was gone.

Decimus glared at the opening they’d come through to end up in a large chamber. “If he rats us out to the templars, I’ll kill him myself.”

“I think they’ve already figured out you’re a blood mage, Decimus,” said Innley. “It isn’t like you were subtle about it. You raised the dead right in front of them. All your traps consist of raising more dead. You practically put up a sign, several signs, telling them what you use to power your spells.”

“I’ll kill him anyway.”

Meghan thought that enough people had died already, but she held her tongue. She was pretty sure more of the mages than just Decimus were blood mages, and she had no desire to become a source of blood for them. She wasn’t a mage; she was expendable. Her place was quite clear in how precarious it was. So she did her best to hide in a far corner as the hours passed, keeping her head down and her mouth shut, ignoring the hunger pangs as much as they allowed. Sometime around dawn—or at least Meghan reckoned it was early morning—Terrie noticed that she was awake and sidled up to her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “When I insisted you come with us, I hadn’t thought things would go this far.”

Meghan’s teeth ground together as she flexed her jaw, an unexpected anger rushing over her. “Did you know?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you know Decimus was a blood mage before we left Starkhaven’s Circle?”

Terrie broke eye contact to shift her gaze across the cavern. “I had suspicions.”

“I remember the conversation between you and Alain. I wasn’t that out of it. You knew. You knew and you bloody insisted I come with you all, anyway.” Meghan jumped to her feet, the frustration and rage at what’d happened over the past week, at losing her family, at losing her credibility, at losing her identity, barreling over her sense of self-preservation. “You all knew about the blood magic, you planned on using it, you knew I’d become so enmeshed in everything that I couldn’t escape the consequences any more than the rest of you. They think I’m a mage! Me, cursed with magic! They think I’m one of you!”

“It’s a curse, is it?” asked Terrie. “How can my magic be a curse? Lest you forget, Princess, I healed you. I healed your arm. I kept you alive. Without me, you’d be dead, or at the very least, have only one arm.”

“Fat lot of good your healing did.” Meghan motioned toward her crippled hand with her good one. “I barely have use of my hand. My fingers scarcely grip anything. It’s like they’re just there, useless reminders of things I could once do. It’s about the same as cutting it off. Maybe it would’ve been better had it been amputated.”

“I could certainly oblige that wish,” came Grace’s voice as she strode over, having heard the argument, along with the rest of the cave’s inhabitants. “Or just kick you out. Or both. Probably both.”

“It would be a waste,” said Decimus. “I’d rather not waste anything, not with our backs against the wall as they are.”

“You would sacrifice me?” Meghan stared at them, surprised that they would openly state such intentions, even though she’d had her suspicions. And even though she’d brought the focus of their wrath on herself, she didn’t regret her outburst. The anger still filled her, that they couldn’t see what they’d done to her. “You should have just left me in Starkhaven.”

“Also a waste,” said Decimus. “Royal blood will be more powerful, I believe. Yes, you could prove quite useful, Princess.”

Meghan wondered exactly when her royal title had been reduced to an epithet.

“Someone approaches,” Innley said from his guard post near the entrance.

Grace ignored him, walking up to Meghan, almost in her personal space. “I would still like to take her arm for what she’s said. For her ungratefulness toward our healer.”

The sound of booted footsteps came from outside the entrance, and Innley bolted toward where the other mages stood. A group of fighters ran inside the cavern, led by a woman clad in leathers. Next to her ran a tall young man with a greatsword held at the ready. “Am I interrupting something?” the woman asked in a surprisingly lilting voice. But her tone shifted quickly into a harder one. “If so, I can come back later. Or not at all. Your choice.”

Decimus spun his stave and called a shield around himself. “The templars have come to take us back to the Circle. I will not allow it!”

Meghan looked back and forth between Decimus and the newcomers. Between the woman in the leathers, the almost boy carrying a greatsword, the dwarf she’d noticed in the shadows carrying a large crossbow, and another woman in the shadows, daggers glinting in the light cast from Decimus’ magical shield, Meghan really didn’t think these people were templars. They lacked the proper attire, for one.

“Decimus, no!” said Grace, abandoning Meghan and moving toward the other mage. “Stay your hand. These are no templars.”

It was almost nice to see that not all the mages had lost their minds. But Decimus was not among them, and he moved his hands in ways Meghan had witnessed before. He drove his stave into the sandy ground underfoot, and then drew a slim knife. “What do I care what shield they carry?” asked Decimus.

“They aren’t even _carrying_ shields,” said Innley.

Decimus ignored him. “If they challenge us, the dead themselves will meet the call!” With that, he stabbed his palm with his knife, and drew more bodies from the ground.

Meghan didn’t think she’d ever get over the smell of the undead, at their putrid bodies, or their terrifying cries that accompanied their attacks. Then she saw other beasts as she stumbled backward and into a wall. Worse creatures than before, things she’d only heard about, had only witnessed in her worst nightmares as a child—demons. They’d summoned demons to fight for them.

Some of them had become demons themselves, their bodies twisted and grotesque and yet more powerful. The newcomer and her compatriots seemed unbothered by the recent developments, one of them even going so far as to sigh in resignation before leaping into the fray. 

Meghan wasn’t proud to admit it, but she cowered in a corner as the battle continued. She could offer no help, and jumping in weaponless would only end in her death. There was also the matter of the appearance of actual demons and abominations that scared the shit out of her—and there really was no other way for her to describe that fear that didn’t include cursing. At first, it seemed the newcomers were prevailing over Decimus and the other blood mages, but then the young man, who’d been taking most of the heavy hits, was lifted up in a spell that looked to be crushing him in mid-air. She didn’t think that without the young man’s deflections that the rest of the party could keep from being injured.

Turned out she was wrong. The young man being knocked out of combat incensed the woman in charge. “That’s it! No one hurts my little brother but me!” she shouted, and hurled herself right at Decimus, lightning arcing around her sword.

Decimus, taken by surprise at the highly unorthodox attack, momentarily gaped at the woman. Just a moment, but it was long enough for the woman still in the shadows to throw a dagger right into Decimus’ eye.

The other blood mages fell quickly after seeing their leader fall. Soon enough, all that could be heard in the cavern was heavy breathing as the survivors recovered, and the thump as the young man landed on the cavern’s floor. He moaned and grumbled, but seemed otherwise fine, at least to Meghan’s untrained eyes. She saw Terrie hesitate for a second, and then walk over to the young man, her hands already glowing with a healing spell.

“You killed him!” Grace said after regaining her breath, sprinting over to kneel at the side of Decimus’ body. “Oh, Decimus, you should have listened to me, love.”

Meghan frowned. Listened to her? Grace had advocated violence and blood magic almost more than he had. It was hard to forget someone threatening to amputate your arm. Or to use you as a sacrifice for your blood. 

Grace drew her fingers over Decimus’ open eyes, closing them. Then she stood up and spun to face the leader of the newcomers. “I saw what you are. How could you murder one of your own just for daring to defy the templars?”

“He attacked us first, in case you didn’t notice,” said the woman, who stood from kneeling beside her recovering brother. “I’m sure he meant a lot to you, but you can’t be that blind.”

“I don’t know, Hawke,” said the dwarf. “They do say love is blind.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “All right, I’ll grant you that. But you won’t get me to believe that love is deaf and dumb, as well.” She returned her attention to Grace. “Care to explain what happened here? I’m not sure if you know, but there’s a templar outside who seemed quite concerned about all your safety, almost like he wanted you all to live.”

“I told Decimus he was going too far,” said Grace. “But he said it was the only way to protect us. To protect me. Please, we only want our freedom. The templar, he must be lying to you. They will execute us all for Decimus’ crimes. You’ll have to deal with the templar. You’ll have to kill him.”

Hawke narrowed her light eyes at Grace, almost as suspicious as Meghan thought she should be. “You’re awfully quick to advocate killing,” she said after studying the mage. “I’m no fan of templars, myself. However, I’ve spoken with Thrask before, in Kirkwall. He’s a reasonable sort, and usually quite fair. Knowing what I do of him, he’s probably telling the truth.”

Grace scoffed. “Your confidence almost makes me believe you. But I spent days traveling with those templars. They strike first and think after. Thrask will prove to be no exception.”

“Leave it to me,” said the dwarf. “By the time I’m done, the templars will swear the sky is green.”

Hawke strode over to her brother and helped him to his feet. “We’re not really going to help them, are we?” the young man asked.

“One of them helped you, Carver,” Hawke told him. “Tell yourself we’re saving her life instead of that other woman’s. And mind your manners.”

Carver grumbled and then gave Terrie a sincere look of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Terrie said with a nod.

With that, Hawke and her companions started for the entrance. Then Hawke stopped and turned to face Grace once more. “One of us will return soon to let you know when it’s safe to leave. Make sure not to attack the messenger.”

Grace, already kneeling beside Decimus’ body once more, gave Hawke a curt nod. When Hawke resumed her walk, Meghan pushed herself from where she leaned against the wall, grabbed her grandfather’s bow—she’d finally managed to don her leathers during their flight from Starkhaven—and chased after them. 

She would not be left behind with mages ever again. They couldn’t be trusted.


	12. Chapter 12

“There have been alienages for as long as elves and shems have lived in the same lands. They say that Val Royeaux has ten thousand elves living in a space no bigger than Denerim’s market. Their walls are supposedly so high that daylight doesn’t reach the vhenadahl until midday. ****

But don’t be so anxious to start tearing down the walls and picking fights with the guards. They keep out more than they keep in. We don’t have to live here, you know. Sometimes a family gets a good break, and they buy a house in the docks, or the outskirts of town. If they’re lucky, they come back to the alienage after the looters have burned their house down. The unlucky ones just go to the paupers’ field.

Here, we’re among family. We look out for each other. Here, we do what we can to remember the old ways. The flat-ears who have gone out there, they’re stuck. They’ll never be human, and they’ve gone and thrown away being elven, too. So where does that leave them? Nowhere.”

— _Sarethia, hahren of the Highever alienage_

**Líadan**

A sharp rap on the door woke them both from a sound sleep. Líadan, having not gotten enough sleep the night before, especially with her now requiring an absurd _amount_ of sleep, shoved her head under the pillow as Malcolm scrambled out of bed. It had to be early. She was far too tired for them to have slept in.

“Some help you are,” he said to her before he pitched his voice louder and spoke towards the door. “Come in.”

She heard the door open, but not close. Then she heard Seneschal Robert’s voice say, “Your Highness, Warden, there is an elf from Highever at the gates claiming she is expected by the both of you.”

Líadan threw the pillow off her head and sat up.

“We’re not expecting any—” Malcolm started to say.

“Yes, we are,” she said, ignoring Robert’s slightly raised eyebrow in her direction as she slid out of the bed. He was a seneschal; he had to be used to this sort of thing. Besides, she was clothed. Granted, they were bedclothes, but it wasn’t like she was scandalously naked. However, if Robert gave her that eyebrow again, she would be sure to properly scandalize him. “Cáel’s potential nurse.”

“This morning?” asked Malcolm. “And you didn’t think to let me know ahead of time? Or to let the guards know so she wouldn’t be challenged at the gate?”

“I was preoccupied.”

Robert cleared his throat. “Should I see her into the keep?”

Malcolm gave him a grateful look. “Please see her into the main hall to share the morning meal if she’d like.”

“Perhaps I should call your attention to the time of day, ser.”

Malcolm glanced out the window. “It’s mid-morning? Really? Why weren’t we woken up?”

“Enchanter Wynne requested you both be allowed to sleep as long as possible. She was particularly adamant about Warden Líadan not being awakened. King Alistair advised me not to cross her, not that I was inclined to do so. She has a... remarkably effective frown, much like my departed mother’s,” said Robert.

“Can’t argue with that,” said Malcolm just before he thrust his head into the water basin. 

“I should hope not.” Robert waited for Malcolm to dry his face with a linen before asking, “And where shall I escort her?”

“The private dining hall. And see that there’s a small morning meal laid out as well, since we missed breakfast.” Malcolm went to the wardrobe and fetched out fresh clothing.

Líadan held in a chuckle as Robert raised another eyebrow, this time at Malcolm. “When you say small meal, ser, do you mean small in general or small for a Grey Warden?”

“Second one. It wouldn’t be very polite to not even offer to share with our guest.”

The seneschal inclined his head. “I shall see to it.” He stepped back out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Thus began a flurry of activity from the both of them to get ready. Líadan did wonder where the dogs were. If they were around the keep and not out at the Dalish camp, they would’ve woken them up close to sunrise. She had noticed when she and Malcolm had come in the night before—or had it technically been morning by then?—that Kennard was nowhere to be found, and the room Panowen, Ariane, and Cáel had been given was empty. Dalish camp, then.

Which meant Cáel was not in the keep for Nuala to meet. She’d have to run down and get him, which meant leaving Malcolm with Nuala without her to keep him from really putting his foot in it. 

She wondered how long it would take to find another nurse as good as Nuala seemed to be.

“We are making a horrible impression,” she said.

“I know.” He’d managed to finish with everything except his boots, which he was currently pulling on. “Good thing the servants took pity on us and brought up water to bathe last night, or we’d be making a smelly impression as well.” He got his second boot on and stomped it on a floor a couple times to make sure it was on right. Then he frowned. “If the dogs didn’t wake us up and aren’t here now...”

“It means Cáel is down at the Dalish camp. I’ll have to go get him while you speak with her.”

“By myself?”

“You’re a grown up. I’m sure you can do it.” Speak with her, yes. To speak with her gracefully, no.

“I thought you _wanted_ her to be Cáel’s nurse.”

Finished with the water and the rest of morning necessities, she shucked the nightclothes and got her own clothing. When Malcolm remained silent, she realized she should’ve done that in reverse. “Stop staring at me.” She peeked over her shoulder in time to catch Malcolm’s slightly wistful look. “No time for anything. Not even looking.”

“What about admiring? No?”

“No.” Clothing obtained, she wrapped the breastband and threw on the rest, then turned to find him still looking at her, though he’d become more contemplative. “What?” How he didn’t feel the same sense of urgency she did about _not_ losing Nuala as a nurse, she had no idea. Without a new nurse, they would be stuck not seeing much of Cáel until they got one, and the lack of his presence around the castle, and their inability to find enough time to spend at the Dalish camp, had really started to bother her. And she knew it bothered him. He’d said as much before.

“It’s just strange. You don’t _look_ any different. Not that I can see, and I’d like to think I know you pretty well by now.”

Oh, because he was distracted. “Because I don’t look any different and I won’t for a few months at least and why must you bring that up right now?” She didn’t have the time or energy to think about it, and it had taken up so much of her time yesterday that she really didn’t even want to acknowledge it today. She suspected she’d have to despite her reluctance, but she’d thought she could at least avoid it before breakfast. Then again, it was technically after breakfast.

“I don’t know. It just struck me.”

“I’ll strike _you_ if you don’t get ready.”

He raised his eyebrow and said mildly, “I am ready. What’s taking you so long?”

Sadly, she had nothing within reach to throw at him, at least nothing that she didn’t need. She settled for a glare as she put on her own boots. 

It didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He did hold the door open for her once she indicated she was ready, and together, they headed for the dining room. “So you _are_ at least going to introduce us,” he said.

“If I left you to introduce yourself, especially when you haven’t eaten yet today, she’d end up turning around and walking out within a minute. If that.”

He scoffed. “I could make it to five.”

“Were a good nurse for Cáel not on the line, I would call you on that.”

Malcolm gave her a hurt look. “You have no faith in me.”

“I have plenty of faith in you. Just not in what you think it should be.” They rounded the corner and passed by some of the dwarven construction crew. They exchanged nods and continued on their way.

He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close for a moment. “Hearing things like that, I’m not sure why I love you, but I do.” Then he let her go. “So, what’s this woman’s name? How did you find her?”

“Her name is Nuala Tabris—originally from Denerim, and happens to be Bann Shianni’s cousin. Her husband was the smith who was killed during the dragon’s rampage. Fergus found out about her and told Wynne, who passed it along to me.”

“Really? This might work out better than we thought. Fergus wanted to find the smith’s widow so Highever could provide for her since her husband died in the teyrnir’s service. Does she have a baby like Panowen does?”

“No. She and her daughter were trampled by a panicked crowd of refugees during the attack. Her daughter died almost instantly. Nuala was unconscious for a few days, but apparently the alienage’s _hahren_ called for a healer who was able to help.”

“A healer? Did Wynne go down there?”

“Not that I know of.” Líadan smiled over at him. “Do you remember that little old lady who told you about the Tevinters?”

“No way. Really? It was her?”

“Her name is Saitada, I was told. She’s been healing in Highever probably since the dawn of time, considering how they speak of her.” Her amusement faded. “Too bad she couldn’t get to Nuala’s daughter.”

“How... how old was she?”

“Just a little older than Cáel.”

He stopped, his expression troubled. “I can’t even imagine.”

“Best to try not to.” She took his hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze before pulling him back into a walk. “Come on. We’re already late.”

They found Robert waiting outside the mostly closed door. He nodded to them. “She’s waiting inside, as is the food you requested.” Once Malcolm thanked him, the seneschal hustled off. Though Líadan wasn’t sure Robert did anything other than hustle. Probably what made him such a good seneschal, she supposed.

Malcolm made no move for the door. He looked nervously at it, and then turned the nervous look onto her. “You go in first.”

She didn’t respond for a moment, entirely convinced he was kidding around, because there was no way he could be that anxious about meeting Nuala. When he didn’t relent and his eyes became pleading, she asked, “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re just meeting someone who wants to meet you? Someone who wants to make sure you’re okay before they agree to help take care of your son?”

Malcolm put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Exactly. That’s it exactly. If I go in there and I’m _me_ , it could ruin everything. There’s a reason why I’m told to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I’ll end up with a mouth full of my foot. You know how I am! You got a fantastic example of it more than once yesterday. Also, she’s Shianni’s cousin and... Shianni scares me.”

She sighed, reached up, and cupped his face in her hands. “You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t even believe that.”

Líadan dropped her hands and ducked out from under his. “Keep up like you are and I won’t even introduce you.”

“If someone doesn’t come in here,” came Nuala’s voice through the door, “I might just go home.”

Líadan had to resist a grin. Yes, she really could get to like this woman. She took Malcolm by the arm with both hands, nudged the door open with her foot, and practically threw him in. Well, as much as she could be expected to throw him, considering the height and weight differences. She did at least make him stumble a little.

Nuala sat at the far end of the table, not at the head, but just to the side of it. She raised an eyebrow at Malcolm’s entrance, smiled at Líadan, and then got to her feet. Then she opened her mouth to speak, but Malcolm started before she did.

“I promise we didn’t mean to keep you waiting on purpose like some sort of power play or something,” he said.

She took his sudden jump into conversation in stride, and with what seemed perhaps a hint of amusement. “I’m sure you didn’t, Your Highness.”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Malcolm. Please call me Malcolm. Otherwise, if you take the job, it’ll get pretty awkward. I mean, you’d be feeding my son with... and... well, that’s really something where titles shouldn’t be used and...” He shot Líadan a look asking for help before he dug himself in any deeper.

Creators, Nuala was going to walk out before she could even introduce them properly. She sighed again and motioned toward their guest. “Malcolm, this is Nuala Tabris.” Then she motioned toward Malcolm. “Nuala, this is Malcolm Theirin. He happens to be a prince, but you’d never know that from his manners, or appalling lack thereof.”

He at least recovered his basic manners, stepping forward and offering Nuala his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The unsure quirk to Nuala’s eyebrows said that she wasn’t convinced, but she shook Malcolm’s hand anyway. “And you, as well, Malcolm.”

The strength of Nuala’s composure impressed Líadan. Thus far, she’d seemed unflappable to a degree approaching Anora’s ability to remain calm. Which, she realized, was another point in Nuala’s favor toward being the best person for the nurse position if she were to have to deal with Malcolm on a regular basis. Add in Alistair and the other Wardens, and the collectedness was practically a requirement. If Malcolm messed this up, they would be fairly screwed because she wasn’t going back to Highever’s alienage, which meant finding someone in Amaranthine or Denerim.

“All right,” said Malcolm, “let me start over.”

“It isn’t like she’s going to tell you not to,” Líadan said.

Nuala glanced over at Líadan, her smile having returned. “Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind. Then I decided to see if he would recover. I hadn’t realized he was like this in person. From afar, he always seemed gallant, even heroic.”

Malcolm mouthed ‘heroic’ at Líadan and followed it up with a grin.

She ignored him and spoke to Nuala instead. “You know, I think you’re becoming one of my new favorite people. You all right if I leave you alone with him for a bit? I need to go fetch Cáel. We woke up after his current nurse had already brought him with her to the Dalish camp. I think that’s what Malcolm was getting to when he mucked it up.”

“Late night,” Malcolm said as soon as Líadan paused. Then he seemed to realize how his words could be taken. “I mean, nothing untoward, just busy... damn. I can’t make anything I say not sound dirty anymore. This is Oghren’s fault.”

“That’ll teach you to interrupt,” said Líadan.

“Who’s Oghren?” asked Nuala.

Malcolm brightened at an answer he could provide without issue. “One of the other Wardens. Dwarf, great big red beard, sense of humor about as clean as a privy. Oh, and perpetually drunk.”

“Actually,” said Fergus as he walked through the doorway, “he may not be perpetually drunk for much longer. I’m afraid I might have to cut him off from the Highever ale.”

Alistair strode in right behind the teyrn. “I think that would make Oghren cry. I say you should do it.”

Líadan wasn’t sure if the addition of Fergus and Alistair would help Malcolm make a good impression or make it that much worse. Nuala didn’t seem much bothered by Fergus being in the room, but when she saw Alistair, her eyes grew round and she went to one knee, head bowed.

“Your Majesty,” Nuala said.

Líadan kept forgetting that Alistair was a king. She was certain that couldn’t be a good thing for him, that his friends didn’t exactly view him as regal. 

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Malcolm said to Alistair.

Alistair had already gone to Nuala, taken her hand, and gently pulled her to her feet. “No need for that, not if you might end up being my nephew’s nurse. My recommendation is to pretend we’re just like anyone else. No knees or curtseying or bows or titles or anything. Our names are perfectly fine, and if we’re being particularly trying, you’re welcome to a few insults provided there isn’t an audience.”

Nuala seemed to recover quickly, settling right back into her previous calm. “I believe I can agree to that.” Then she looked at Líadan. “I should be fine while you get your son.”

She wasn’t convinced that when she returned with Cáel, Nuala wouldn’t have run away screaming in the meantime, but there was nothing for it, because Cáel needed to be fetched. Holding in a sigh, and after shooting a warning glance at all three of the men, she headed for the Dalish camp.

After all that had happened the night before, it felt strange to return in the daytime. But when she found the camp lively and active in the sunlight, the strangeness retreated. This was a different place than where she’d been the night before. She also realized that _she_ was in a different place than the night before. The guilt hadn’t yet vanished, but it had started a slow retreat, quieting just enough to allow other emotions through. She no longer regarded her future with quite so much dread.

The guards at the entrance nodded at her when she passed them. Though she knew she should speak with Lanaya now that she’d gotten her mind straightened out, she didn’t exactly have time and would just have to visit again later. She paused for a moment, searching for Panowen or Ariane. Then she saw them at the far end of the camp, instructing some of the clan’s children in the way of the bow. Her quarry in sight, Líadan started for them.

And then came to an immediate halt when she found Oisín standing in front of her. She hadn’t even seen him before he appeared practically out of thin air, and it was only her hunter’s training that kept her from yelping. She would not give him the satisfaction—though she did make a mental note to ask Lanaya if Oisín’s ability was magical. If she could learn it, it could prove very useful. 

She also felt confident this morning, her mind once more protected by her ability to project bristly anger if needed. With how the First had looked at her last night, the anger was needed. “What?” The rest of the Ra’asiel warranted friendliness, even Karam. But not Oisín.

“I find myself in a position where I must offer my apology,” said Oisín. “For more than one transgression against you.”

Líadan couldn’t believe the First was apologizing to her. She also couldn’t believe how horrible his timing was. While it was nice to know he felt bad about how he’d treated her, she also didn’t have time to dally. “Thank you,” she said, making sure to sound sincere, and then went to walk past him, hoping he would get the hint.

He didn’t. He took a subtle step to the side so that he stood in front of her again. “I do not make my apology lightly,” he said in an obvious preamble.

 _Or short_ , she thought. However, she kept her silence, deciding that interrupting would just draw the apology out for even longer.

“And you are not the only person to whom I owe an apology. I owe Malcolm one as well, for my behavior on the ship to Ayesleigh, my actions toward him while traveling to Drake’s Fall, and afterward. To you, I must apologize for considering you a thinblood and exile for choices you have made. Keeper Lanaya has counseled me on the error of my ways. While at first I did not agree with her view on your situation, I have come to understand and see as she does.” He paused, apparently having noticed her attention wandering a little, and waited until she looked him in the eye. When she did, he held her gaze. “You are not an exile, Líadan Mahariel.”

All right, she had not expected that. At most, she’d figured his apology would be for treating her as if she were an exile before she was declared one. She certainly hadn’t entertained the idea that he’d change his position entirely. “And maybe one day I will believe that I am not,” she said, surprised at her honesty. Well, if he could extract honesty from her without trying, he was definitely on his way to becoming a Keeper. 

“It is my hope that you will.” And Creators damn him if he didn’t appear entirely sincere. Then he asked,“Will you be bringing Malcolm here soon, or should I find him myself?”

Líadan was torn between making the apology easier for Malcolm to accept and wanting to see Malcolm’s reaction when he realized Oisín was looking for him. “If I do not return with him when I bring my son back to Panowen, then you would do well to look for him in the keep.”

Oisín inclined his head. “My thanks.” He raised his head and drifted into the camp.

She stared after him, shook herself, and went over to Panowen and Ariane. They both acknowledged her arrival with slight nods, but did not interrupt their instruction. Líadan understood, having taught young new archers herself, and patiently waited. Mostly patiently. If she hadn’t been pressed for time, she would’ve been entirely patient. 

Panowen had placed Cáel on a blanket off to the side, under a tree, and well behind the archers. He’d either been placed or had rolled onto his belly, and from there had pushed himself up on his arms and was watching the archers. Elin was beside him on her back, and unsuccessfully trying to get her foot into her mouth. On either side of the blanket was a mabari, both Gunnar and Revas keeping careful watch. They barked when they saw Líadan, but remained with their charges.

Once the two hunters had set the children to practice by shooting arrows at grass-filled deer hides on the far end of the field, Ariane signaled another of the hunters to take over supervision. Then both she and Panowen turned their attention to their guest.

Panowen’s first look at Líadan was of the same concern she’d had the night before. “You are well this morning?”

“Perhaps not well, but better than I was,” she said. 

“A fair answer.” Then Panowen smiled. “You are here for Cáel?”

“Yes. The woman Lanaya and I found yesterday who would make a good nurse for him is at the keep. She’s meeting with Malcolm, and she would like to meet Cáel as well.”

Ariane raised an eyebrow. “And you left him to his own devices? Will he not chase her away with ill-chosen words?”

Panowen laughed softly. “If he’s yet to chase Líadan away, he may be successful in not frightening off this new nurse.” Then she set to gathering up Cáel and Elin.

“I hadn’t considered that before,” said Líadan. And she hadn’t. Despite Malcolm’s appalling lack of eloquence, he had a certain charm, somehow communicating how he truly felt. Even his asking of her to bond had been clumsy at best, yet had clearly shown his sincerity.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t,” said Panowen, securing Elin in a sling across her front. “I’ve watched you patiently listen to him when he tries to make a point, talking ten unwieldy circles around it before getting there.”

“I wasn’t always that patient with him.” Revas bumped into her side and shoved her head under her hand for a good scratch. Líadan obliged, realizing her mabari and Malcolm’s had spent more time guarding Cáel than with them. 

“I’d imagine it’s the sort of thing that comes with time. Lots of time and a great deal of restraint,” said Ariane. 

“You seem in a better mood,” said Líadan. “Not as...”

“Irksome?” asked Panowen, who then passed Cáel to Líadan.

“I was going to say deadly, actually. But that works, too.” She returned Cáel’s smile, and then turned toward Ariane. “Does this mean you’ll stop threatening the humans who are only trying to do their assigned jobs?”

“I actually needed to speak with you about that,” said Ariane.

Líadan raised an eyebrow as she started back toward the camp’s entrance, figuring Panowen and Ariane would follow her until then. “You didn’t kill one of them, did you?”

“No!” Ariane raised her hands to protest her innocence. “No, I haven’t killed a human. Or anyone, for that matter. What I meant is that I will need to pass the duty Morrigan requested of me over to you once your son has a nurse not from my clan.” A blush stained her cheeks red. “I have agreed to bond with Oisín, and it would not do well for me to leave to travel with humans for an undetermined amount of time afterwards.”

“Oisín? Really?” Líadan looked over to where she’d last seen the First. It wasn’t that she didn’t see him as Ariane’s type; it was that she couldn’t see him as _anyone’s_ type. “I would ask what you see in him, but considering my own inclinations, I have no place to argue.”

“I don’t know,” said Ariane. “Your intended bondmate... he is not so bad for a human. Easy to look at, and once you get past inadvertent threats, he really can be quite nice. And judging by Cáel, he does make adorable children. Considering he’s the only real option for you in your Warden clan, you could certainly do far worse.”

She nearly stumbled. “My intended—”

“There are only two things that could make you as disjointed as you were last night,” said Panowen, “and one of those things Morrigan said could not come to pass due to you being a Grey Warden. And since you seem better today, I assume you told him yes.”

“I did.” Líadan concentrated on Cáel and the path in front of them. If she made eye contact with either of the other women, they would know instantly that the first thing was also true. Hunters were trained in observation, and Ariane and Panowen were very good hunters.

There was a pause, and then Panowen asked, “Or was what Morrigan said untrue?”

 _Uncannily good hunters_. Líadan held in a sigh. However, if she could not handle questioning from a clan as open—for Dalish—as the Ra’asiel, she had no hope of facing any other Dalish, or any other elves, for that matter. Though she really had wanted to take the day off from thinking about it. “It was as true as Morrigan believed it to be. She did not tell you a lie, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not quite what I’m asking. Though now I truly understand why you seemed so lost last night. That... explains much,” said Panowen. “Did speaking with the Keeper help when you returned later?”

“She didn’t declare me an exile, so I’ll call that a positive. And she also made some sort of prediction about—” Her chest felt knotted and she forced herself to relax. If she could not admit to it now, with two women she was fairly certain would not hate her for it, she would be in far more trouble once strangers found out. “—the child.”

“The Keeper has made predictions before. She hesitates to call them prophecies, but there are those among us who assume that’s what they really are,” said Ariane. “She predicted much to do with Morrigan approaching our clan, and Keeper Zathrian had brushed them off. After Morrigan stayed with us, Lanaya predicted many things to do with Cianán and Cáel. So if the Keeper has predicted the future of your unborn child, then it must be of great importance to the _elvhen_. So it follows that it would not make sense for you to be exiled.”

“The Ra’asiel are known for their different views, however,” said Panowen. “So take that as you will if you ever return to your birth clan. I know they may not be as open to human influence being a good thing for the future of our people.” She halted before they walked into the very populated main yard. “Do the humans know?”

“Only Wynne and Malcolm.” Líadan adjusted her grip on Cáel. She could swear he’d gotten heavier in the past day and seemed _far_ more active. “We haven’t yet discussed what to do regarding the rest. There are many humans who will be as upset as other Dalish would be.”

Panowen nodded. “I thought as much from my observations. If it ever comes to it, I’m sure you know you and your children are welcome within our clan. Malcolm would also be allowed to accompany you, if necessary.”

“Provided he learn to speak better Elvish,” said Ariane. “Others might not be so good at practicing restraint as I am.”

“Creators willing, it won’t come to that.” The idea of having to leave the Grey Wardens, leave Malcolm, leave Alistair and the clan and family she’d formed here among the humans, frightened her more than she was willing to admit. She banished the thought. “We need to get inside. They’re waiting on us.”

“Or she’s left,” said Panowen. “Can’t say I’d blame her.”

Líadan spun to face them. “Why _are_ you two here with me?”

“I’ve nursed him since he was minutes old,” said Panowen, indicating Cáel. “I would like to meet _and_ approve of the next person who will provide for him.”

“And I go where he goes, for now,” said Ariane.

Líadan rolled her eyes. “You should have just brought the entire clan.”

“I did consider it. Then I decided it would take too long to gather everyone.” Ariane motioned toward the keep. “Speaking of taking too long, aren’t we late?”

She had no idea why she ever missed being with other Dalish. They could be so _Dalish_ at times. With another sigh, Líadan trudged into the castle.


	13. Chapter 13

“My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours.” ****

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Líadan**

When Líadan, Panowen, and Ariane arrived at the small dining room where Líadan had left Malcolm, his brothers, and Nuala, she was surprised to find everyone relaxed, chatting, and _still there_. 

The shock must have registered on her face, because Malcolm looked indignant as he stood and walked over to her. “You truly expected me to scare her off?”

“Between you and your brothers? Even Oghren wouldn’t have taken those odds.” She handed Cáel to him. “And since you’ve suddenly decided you’re eloquent, why don’t you go introduce your son to Nuala?”

He gave her a smile that told her he was going to prove her wrong—or embarrass himself trying—and did just that. As Nuala held Cáel, Líadan introduced her to both Panowen and Ariane. Once everyone started chatting again, she was finally able to get herself breakfast, going as far as to ignore questions posed to her for at least a few minutes so she could shut her stomach up. The Wardens’ almost constant need for food could certainly get in the way at times, but she had ignored the gnawing hunger for as long as she could.

“Look! He’s smiling at her,” said Malcolm. “That means he likes her.”

Líadan glanced up from her meal. “I don’t know. Haven’t you noticed he smiles at everyone? I think he’s just a flirt.”

“If he is, he’s an effective flirt,” said Alistair. “That kid’s got Anora wrapped around his finger. Never thought I’d see the day. I didn’t even know she _liked_ children. I mean, I knew she didn’t actively hate them or merely tolerate their presence, but she really does seem fond of him.”

Nuala looked over at Líadan. “I see the eloquence runs in the family.”

“You have no idea,” she said, pushing away her plate, then thinking better of it and pulling it back. Then she tossed the scraps to the two mabari who’d managed to get under the table. “Anora isn’t like these three, by the way,” she said to Nuala. “It takes her a while to warm up to people, but she is unfailingly polite and very eloquent.”

“I hadn’t given thought to interacting with the Queen. I’d barely wrapped my head around meeting Malcolm and Alistair, especially when I still saw them as Prince Malcolm and King Alistair.” Nuala tweaked Cáel’s nose. “Then again, if the Queen likes this child, it might not be so bad.”

“So you’ll take the job?” asked Líadan, hoping she didn’t sound overeager, even though that’s what she was.

Nuala nodded. “Yes, as long as you can meet one condition.”

Malcolm, who’d been paying more attention to the side conversation that he’d let on, turned to look at Nuala. “What’s the condition?”

“I don’t want to live in Highever, either the town or here in the castle.” Nuala gave Fergus a sad, apologetic look. “Not that Highever isn’t lovely, but...”

“It has memories too strong and too sorrowful to stay for long,” said Fergus. “I daresay Malcolm and I both entirely understand.”

“Should be an easy condition to meet,” said Malcolm. “I’m sure we’ll either be at Vigil’s Keep or in Denerim for the Wardens.” He frowned. “Or traveling, I suppose, since there’s a possibly urgent mission we need to go on for the Wardens.”

Líadan realized that the task Morrigan had requested of them all—to find and destroy every eluvian—might not be one they could attend to as soon as they’d like. They couldn’t bring Cáel on a mission like that, nor could they choose to just leave him, especially not after the woman who’d birthed him had left. There was also her own condition to consider, as much as she didn’t want to. She didn’t bring up her realization in mixed company, however. The others didn’t know, and she was sure Malcolm wouldn’t be thrilled about postponing the destruction of the eluvians for what could be years. They’d have to speak with Lanaya about how urgently the eluvians needed to be destroyed.

“I would like to see the Dalish camp, if I could,” Nuala said to Panowen. “I’ve always been curious, and I would like to see what kind of environment Cáel is used to.”

“And I would be happy to show you. We could go now,” said Panowen, “assuming we are done here.” She confirmed it by looking over at Líadan and Malcolm.

Líadan glanced over at Alistair and Fergus. “You two have any objections? Nuala’s all but accepted, so if you don’t like her, you’d better say it now.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “To her face? And risk you glaring at me for days on end? I’d rather not. And if I said I didn’t think she would be a fine choice as a nurse for my nephew, I’d be lying anyway.” As he said his last statement, he bestowed Nuala with one of his warmest grins.

Which made Nuala blush. Líadan wondered when Alistair had become _charming_. It must’ve been while they traveled, because the Alistair they’d fought alongside during the Blight had been as graceful and eloquent as Malcolm—which was to say, not at all. Probably Anora’s influence. And perhaps Alistair’s newfound eloquence explained why Nuala hadn’t run screaming while Líadan had been at the Dalish camp. 

Either that, or Nuala found the three of them entertaining instead of annoying. It was hard to tell.

“Anyway,” said Alistair, “Fergus and I need to go prepare for the Divine’s arrival. She’ll be here in three days, as long as the seas stay calm. We also can’t seem to locate the Orlesian commander’s body, even though we’ve found the armor.”

“You’ve got three days to prepare for the Divine being _here_?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes. Not much on warning. Hope she doesn’t expect posh treatment,” said Fergus. “Or housing, because we haven’t much room left in the keep. We might have to kick people out and make them set up tents or something so the Divine can at least stay inside. I’m sure she’s bringing plenty of templars and priests and such as her retinue, but I’m not kicking out all my people, or even most. The household can’t run without my staff, and the ones who live here are keeping their beds. Those men and women are useful, unlike the Divine. We still have some of the wounded convalescing, even though they’re now under the care of four Circle healers, not including Wynne. So, those men and women can’t be moved, either.”

“We should make the new templars camp with the other templars,” said Malcolm.

“Meaning they take over guard duty, or we put them under guard as well?” asked Fergus.

“If it wouldn’t be a huge insult to the Divine, I’d be for keeping guards on all the templars. But I’m sure she’d be offended. Even so, we should have some of our scouts watch the camp’s activity in case they get any creative ideas about resuming their march on us.”

“Do you really think the Divine’s visit is a ruse?” asked Alistair.

Malcolm shrugged. “After all she’s done to us, I wouldn’t put it past her. However, I do think she’s telling the truth, for once.”

Panowen looked between each of the human men. “Am I mistaken, or are you all speaking of your religious leader?” After they nodded in confirmation, she asked, “How could you allow such a person to continue to lead? If a Keeper acted as your Divine has, he or she would be removed from their position.”

“Because she’s Orlesian,” said Fergus. “If the Chantry were based in Ferelden, I suspect she _would_ be removed. Ferelden isn’t much for suffering fools in power.”

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and tapped at his chin, as if considering an idea. “I’m not so sure. Cailan wasn’t the brightest of candles.”

“That’s why he had Anora,” said Alistair. “She’s brilliant. Also does not suffer fools. Considering she hasn’t yet tried to take over ruling, and seems to even tolerate me, possibly even like me, I guess that makes me not a fool.”

“Morrigan would disagree,” said Panowen, but she smiled as she said it.

Alistair returned the smile. “Ha! Morrigan pretty much thought everyone _but_ her happened to be a fool. And for all we know, she could be right.” Then he stood up, the rest of the room following. “Let’s go see what we can do for the Divine’s accommodations. I have a sneaking suspicion that Fergus is going to kick the Wardens out into the cold.”

“It’s summer,” said Fergus. “It won’t be that cold.” Then he paused to reconsider. “All right, I’ll admit that any place where the breeze hits from the Waking Sea at night can get pretty chilly, even this time of year.”

“And yet you don’t deny the kicking out the Wardens part,” said Malcolm.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll kick you out just to teach you a lesson,” said Fergus.

“Wouldn’t work,” said Ariane. “They would just come stay with the clan until you saw fit to put a roof back over their heads.”

“Honestly, it might come to that, so I hope that invitation is sincere.”

“It is,” said Panowen. “Cáel was born among the Dalish, Líadan _is_ Dalish, and we’ve certainly noticed that where Líadan goes, Malcolm tends to go as well.”

“Mmm. Yes.” Alistair nodded. “He’s more than a bit attached, I’d say.”

Malcolm shifted his weight from foot to foot. Líadan could see that it was from anxiety over their impending bonding and not having quite figured out what to do in regards to getting Alistair, Fergus, and Oghren to stop pressuring him. If they couldn’t know about them actually _being_ bonded, their pressure had the potential to continue for the foreseeable future. And if it did, Malcolm wouldn’t be able to hold out on the truth for very long. He wasn’t a good liar, and his brothers could be rather convincing. 

“Time to go to the camp?” Malcolm asked.

Líadan nodded, and they made their way out. Nuala handed Cáel to Malcolm, and then walked ahead with Panowen and Ariane. 

Cáel squirmed in Malcolm’s arms, looking like he was trying to throw himself out of them. “Maker’s breath,” said Malcolm. “Can’t you stay still?” He adjusted his grip and then looked at Líadan. “He’s _heavy_. I swear he wasn’t this heavy the other day.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve lifted shields heavier than him, and used to smash them into darkspawn for hours on end, so you shouldn’t have any trouble carrying your comparatively light son.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “The shields had handles. Also, they don’t wiggle.” He dodged one of Cáel’s batting hands. 

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend using Cáel for bashing darkspawn.”

Malcolm studied his son. “I don’t know. Maybe they could be convinced by the cute to surrender?”

“If that were a valid tactic, I’m sure it would’ve been employed in battle by now. Besides, the darkspawn might not think he’s cute. They probably have a different standard of beauty than we do, if they even have a standard at all.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Gunnar nudged Malcolm’s leg, making Malcolm look down at him. “What, you want to carry him? Well, you can’t. You don’t have arms; you have four legs, and a serious lack of hands. If you’re really determined to carry him, I suppose I could attach a basket or something. Maybe a saddle later, when he gets bigger? I remember Oghren suggesting that once and you taking offense. I’m not so sure this isn’t the same thing.”

Gunnar gave him a bark that sounded surprisingly argumentative and condescending.

“Right. Human baby not the same as a drunk dwarf. You might change your mind once he gets to walking. You weren’t around when Oren started walking, but let me tell you, they look a _lot_ like teetering, drunken dwarves when they first start out.”

Gunnar whined.

“No, it isn’t preposterous. Have you seen how big a baby’s head is compared to its body? Takes a while to grow into that and makes walking a precarious, wobbly thing for quite some time. You’ll see.” Gunnar gave him another bark, and then took off at a run with Revas, ranging far ahead of the group before cornering and heading for the kennels. Malcolm watched them for a moment, and then his eyes moved to the three women in front of them, measuring something. Then he looked at Líadan. “You know, Nuala moves like you do. Like Panowen and Ariane. All graceful and quiet yet deadly-like. I can understand with you and the other two, given you’re trained Dalish hunters, but I haven’t heard of many city elves trained the same way. Zevran was like that, but he was trained by the Crows.” His eyes widened. “Could she be a Crow?”

Líadan laughed. “Maybe, but I doubt it. And Baltasar has assured us many times over that Grey Wardens and Theirins are off-limits to the Crows. Her mother taught her how to fight, as her mother taught her before that. I suspect her grandmother or great-grandmother was Dalish.”

Malcolm’s eyes remained wide in possible fear. “I am absolutely surrounded by highly skilled and dangerous women.”

She smacked him on the arm. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is if I piss them off, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m really good at that.”

“Then you’ll need to work on your manners.”

“Teyrna Eleanor tried to instill them in me for years. Much to her eternal despair, it never took.”

Their conversation halted as they reached the camp. Panowen studied Cáel for a moment, and then turned to Nuala. “I’d like to have one last day with him, but we can’t risk your milk supply for my sentiment. Is it in danger of drying out?”

Nuala’s cheeks flushed a little. “No, it’s fine. I haven’t yet bound my breasts, and I’ve been expressing, mostly to ease the pain. And also to...”

“I know,” said Panowen as she placed a comforting hand on Nuala’s arm, her eyes filled with more understanding than Líadan had thought possible. “It’s hard to let go.”

Malcolm got the hint and handed Cáel to her. Then the grief passed for a time, and Nuala went with Panowen and Ariane for a tour of the camp. 

Oisín practically materialized out of thin air when Malcolm turned around, making Malcolm jump back a few feet. “Could you _not_ do that?”

If Líadan hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought she saw amusement dancing in Oisín’s eyes. Maybe his bonding with Ariane was affecting him for the better. Certainly couldn’t make him any worse. 

“I owe you an apology,” said Oisín. 

“Damn right,” said Malcolm. “Seriously, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. Especially Grey Wardens. Usually results in death.”

“And yet I am still alive and unharmed.”

“Only because I am a paragon of restraint.”

Líadan snorted. 

Both Oisín and Malcolm glared at her before Oisín returned to his determined task. “That is not why I must apologize. I am sorry for my behavior and attitude towards you on the ship from Ayesleigh and afterward as I continued to travel with your group.”

“Really? You’re not having me on, are you?” Malcolm looked around. “This isn’t some sort of Dalish joke?”

“I assure you, it is no joke. My apology is sincere. I was amiss in believing you had caused the exile of one of the People, as I had thought when I discovered Líadan’s condition on the ship.”

“That’s why you kept glaring at me! I’d wondered what I’d done to you.” Then Malcolm frowned slightly. “You’ve known since then? And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wanted to, both to Líadan and to you, though my actions toward you may have approached violence. However, the healer in your party convinced me to wait until after we had concluded business at Drake’s Fall. He claimed that neither of you would do well with the distraction. Judging from how Líadan reacted to the news, I believe your healer’s supposition was correct.”

Malcolm exchanged a glance with Líadan, confirming she thought the same. “Can’t argue with that,” he said to Oisín. “So, does this mean we’re all right? You won’t be glaring at me anymore?”

“Yes. However, I am sure you will find something else requiring glares soon enough.” Oisín briefly inclined his head. “If you will excuse me.”

Malcolm stared at the First for a moment as he strode away. “That was... weird. Did the Keeper yell at him or something?”

“My discussion with my First did not require either of us to raise our voices,” said Lanaya, appearing much the same way as Oisín had.

Malcolm managed to keep from jumping, but he did let out a little squeak of surprise. “What _is_ it with you? If you could not appear out of thin air, either you or your First or anyone, for that matter, that would be wonderful. Mostly because every time you do it, I think I lose a year from my life.”

Lanaya blinked in surprise. “I did not appear out of thin air. I walked over here from my aravel. You did not see me?”

He looked accusingly at Líadan. “ _This_ is the Dalish idea of a joke, then? Because if you’re all trying to mess with my head, it’s working.”

“I had nothing to do with anything,” Líadan said. “If your observation skills are lacking, it isn’t my fault, or the fault of the Dalish. Maybe you should work to strengthen them.”

“Maybe you should...” He stopped, seemingly thinking better of finishing his statement, and then shifted his gaze toward the castle. “You know what, I think I’ll go help Fergus and Alistair so they don’t have to kick the Wardens or anyone else out of the keep while the Divine is here.”

“Good luck with that.”

Malcolm pulled a face, said farewells, and made his way out of the camp. Lanaya watched him go before turning to Líadan. “I see you did go to him after our talk.”

“It made sense. And I didn’t have to go very far. He was sitting by the cliffs. Technically on, with his feet dangling over the side, which always makes me nervous. One could very easily fall from there, and no one could survive the landing with all the boulders at the bottom.”

“And you told him yes?”

“He wouldn’t be in this good of a mood, otherwise. And he’s happy about the child, so long as I’m okay with it.”

Lanaya nodded to herself and looked in the direction where Malcolm had gone. “He’s a good man. Most humans would not understand the difficulty elves would have when it comes to bearing elf-blooded children. That he actively takes into consideration your feelings on the matter is... impressive, in a way. A depth of character one would not expect to see in a human, biased though I may be.” She gave Líadan a small, rueful smile. “Though I am open to a human’s role in the future of _elvhenan_ , I admit to my own prejudices from being raised Dalish.”

“It’s hard to silence the voices of those morals. And some can’t be silenced at all, only muffled.” Líadan knew Lanaya would know which moral she referred to since it was one of the most imperative of all Dalish teachings. Accepting that she would bear a human’s child, and someday without guilt, required putting a lot of distance between herself and what she’d been taught as a youth. The distance would allow the voice of the teaching to become a faint yell, but it would still be present, and most likely never fully quieted. She would have to learn to live with it so it did not catch up with her again, like it had the night before.

“Continue with your steps and you will find acceptance.” Lanaya paused, giving room for silence before she asked, “Have you given thought to when you would like to bond? If you would like me to perform the ceremony, I must inform you that the clan will be leaving before the human Divine arrives. While the Chantry’s templars do not normally actively hunt us, it is another matter if we are in their veritable backyard. We will need to be on our way the day before or the morning right before her ship arrives, at the latest.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that.” Truthfully, she hadn’t much contemplated beyond accepting him. But Lanaya was right to move the clan out of the direct sight of the Chantry. It was a very good thing they’d found a new nurse for Cáel or there would be some very tough decisions when the time came for the Ra’asiel to depart. “Before you go, we’ll all need to speak with Hildur about the eluvians and what we’re doing.”

“Yes. She and I are arranging a meeting tomorrow with all the Wardens, as well as Wynne. She said she would mention it to you and Malcolm and the others at some point today.” Lanaya raised her eyebrows expectantly. “So... do you wish me to perform your bonding ceremony?”

Líadan smiled. “Not sure who else could do it, but yes, please. I haven’t really discussed the ‘when’ with Malcolm, pretty much only the ‘will you?’ portion. But if you’re leaving in two days because the Divine will be here in three, I suppose we should do it the night before your clan departs.”

“The night before? Not the day?”

“I... we...” She sighed. “The Chantry is a problem. And if Alistair or Fergus or even some of the Wardens know, it could cause another invasion by the Chantry, this time in the form of an Exalted March. So it has to be secret, unfortunately. At least until Ferelden doesn’t have to walk on tiptoes around their Chantry law.”

“I understand. You will want as few witnesses as possible, I assume? I would recommend having some who are not Dalish. People who have proven to be very good at keeping secrets.”

“Yes. And probably not many Dalish witnesses, either, just in case. You, Panowen, Ariane. Unless you see a need for more?”

“Three is plenty. The ceremony is no less valid whether there be one witness or one hundred. Your intentions are made clear to the Creators. The presence of the clan is so that they may celebrate the new bond with you, but it is not necessary.”

Líadan did remember what she’d been taught about bonding and the ceremony—or lack thereof, sometimes—for it. Most of it. She’d only vaguely considered actively seeking out a bondmate just before she and Tamlen had found the eluvian. After that, she had given up the idea for a long time. “I remember my lessons.”

“Good. And you know you will need a gift for him, according to custom?”

Her eyes widened—the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind, and now she had less than two days, given that he agreed to the timing. “Sweet Creators, I’d forgotten.” It took much effort to resist the urge to pace. “His gift to me was of Dalish crafting. Perhaps I should return the favor and help with a gift of human crafting. I’m just not sure what. His armor is in excellent repair and was a gift from King Bhelen. The sword he carries is also in good condition, in addition to having a strong sentimental value since it was once Duncan’s, and was passed to him by Riordan. His shield was a gift from Bhelen, too. Damn.” And hunting to obtain a pelt would be silly because he’d really have no use for it. She frowned. 

“Must it have to do with arms or armor?”

“Tradition demands it to be practical. Considering we’re Grey Wardens, something martial seems the best idea. Except that he really hasn’t a need for anything.”

Lanaya nodded. “A wise view. What about an item that would provide protection of some kind? An amulet or ring enchanted in the traditional manner? That may be a good option for you.”

“Maybe. He already has Morrigan’s ring. I’m not sure if it provides any sort of protection, but it does have that connection to Morrigan.” A thought struck her. “You know, it really should be Cáel’s now so that he’s connected to his birth mother in some way. So Malcolm would need a new ring, I suppose. That could work.” He could even wear the ring in the same place he currently kept Morrigan’s, right next to the pendant all Wardens wore. And once Cáel was old enough to wear the ring around his neck without being in danger of strangling himself with it, they could pass it to him. She’d have to move quickly, however. The only smith she knew was Wade, and he hated to be rushed. And she’d have to figure out a good story that wouldn’t give away the bonding, but would still convince him to agree. She _knew_ he’d agree if he knew it was related to the bonding—Wade had a bit of fondness for romance, Wynne once told her—but she had no idea if Wade would be able to keep a secret like that. “I’d have to figure out what to say to the smith to convince him to make the ring.”

“You could simply tell him it’s a promise ring, since the betrothal ring is a Dalish custom. It would also provide a good cover for Malcolm if anyone noticed it. I would even be happy to bless it according to tradition.”

“I like that idea.” The Dalish promise rings were blessed by Keepers to ensure a long, healthy life. Given that she and Malcolm were Grey Wardens, it was a nice sentiment more than anything else, but still a nice one.

“Just bring it to me when it’s completed and I will see to its blessing,” said Lanaya.

“I will.” 

Soon enough, Ariane and Panowen brought Nuala to meet the Keeper. Líadan waited as they chatted, knowing that she needed to speak with Nuala about one more issue before the job of being Cáel’s nurse was officially hers. When Nuala ran out of questions for Lanaya, both she and Líadan started their walk back to the keep. 

“Where did Malcolm go?” Nuala asked.

“Said he was going to help Fergus and Alistair prepare for the Divine’s arrival. He wanted to keep them from having to kick the Wardens out of the keep to make room for the Divine and her retinue. Personally, I think it’s a lost cause.” One that she hadn’t minded before, when she’d mistakenly assumed the Ra’asiel would still be there. Tents sounded much less appealing than cozy aravels if they couldn’t stay in the keep. 

“When am I going to start?”

“When you want, I suppose. Well, I mean, within the next couple days. The Ra’asiel clan is leaving in two days so they won’t be here when the Divine arrives. The Chantry knows that Dalish keepers are mages. Generally, it goes overlooked, as long as the clans keep moving, and they don’t flaunt their magic in front of templars or Chantry priests. However, having an entire clan right in front of them would be fairly hard for the Divine to ignore. So Lanaya is moving the clan before that happens. Panowen is going with them, which means we’ll need you by then, at least.”

“I can be here tomorrow. Not much to bring from home. Everything reminds me of them.”

“Don’t throw anything out,” said Líadan. “Pack it up if you need to, store it, give it to someone you trust to hold. But don’t destroy it. You’ll regret it later. It might be much, much later, maybe years and years, but you will.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I broke my slain mother’s bow in half, threw the pieces deep into the forest, and left them behind when the clan moved on. It didn’t bother me back then, with everything so fresh. Years later, I wished for that tangible memory once again. I thought carrying the bow with me, feeling its balance, would connect me to her, even though she was gone. I never got to test that theory, and I certainly regret it.”

“I will keep your advice in mind when I go home,” said Nuala, her voice much quieter than before.

Líadan sighed and halted. “There’s one more thing I need to ask you about before we can both be really sure you’ll want to be Cáel’s nurse.”

“Is this where you tell me Grey Wardens sacrifice puppies in the dark of the new moon in order to gain power to slay the darkspawn?”

“No! What—is that a real rumor?”

Nuala laughed, the accompanying smile crinkling the corners of her light brown eyes. “No. It just got so suddenly tense that I needed to break it.”

“You might not like what I have to say.”

“If it’s about you expecting Malcolm’s child, I already know about it. Panowen and Ariane told me. Well, threatened, more like. That if I wasn’t okay with it I should say so now, before anyone got attached.”

Líadan turned and glared at the Dalish camp behind them. “Creators! If they’ve told anyone else, I’ll have to kill the two of them myself.”

“If it helps, they did threaten me with death if I told anyone,” said Nuala.

“It, well, all right, it does kind of help.” She ran agitated fingers through her hair. It was barely noon and she already felt like she’d gone through a full day. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“I’m not like most of the other elves in the Highever Alienage, if that’s what you’re asking. Far as I’m concerned, being Grey Wardens pretty much exempts you from all sorts of the normal societal rules. Besides, if the child you have with him is anything like Cáel, I think it could be considered a blessing. To some. I gather from Ariane and Panowen that other Dalish might not be so approving.”

“You could say that,” said Líadan, resuming her walk to the keep. “And we haven’t really told anyone yet, mostly because we aren’t sure how to. So, if you could—”

“Lips are sealed. I was never much of a gossipmonger, anyway.”

Her instincts told her that Nuala spoke the truth. And from what Alistair had told her about nurses in human households, especially noble human households, and triple especially royal households—Alistair’s wording—nurses needed to be very tight-lipped. They ended up seeing much of the personal life of the families they worked for, and their discretion was worth more than they could ever truly be paid. Then she realized that if Nuala was going to be that close to her and Malcolm, she would know pretty much everything. Líadan also wanted Cáel to be at the bonding, even though he’d never remember, and most likely would be asleep. “I lied,” she said out loud.

Nuala gave her a sidelong look. “Did you now?”

“Not intentionally.” She stopped walking yet again. “I promise I’m not normally this secretive, aside from Grey Warden things. But this is an incredibly awkward time with unforeseen things happening, and what I wanted to ask was if you’d come witness a bonding and bring Cáel with you.”

“Bonding?”

“I think humans call it a wedding.”

Nuala clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Oh, wait, you said secretive. Is this to be a clandestine bonding? I’m assuming it’s yours and Malcolm’s?”

“Yes. Very clandestine. The Chantry—”

“Say no more. The Chantry seems to ruin everything, doesn’t it? Doesn’t help that the Divine isn’t very partial to Ferelden. Just let me know when and I’ll be there. I rather like how _many_ distractions you’ve provided for me so I don’t mire in my grief. Is it always like this?”

“Honestly?” asked Líadan. “I think this counts as a lull. There’s usually more dragons.”

Not long after she and Nuala parted ways for the day, with Nuala returning to the town, Líadan set out for the smithy. She knew she’d have to get through Herren before she could approach Wade. Hopefully, Herren had the same streak of romanticism that Wade did, or she would be entirely out of luck. 

When he caught sight of her, Herren smiled brightly. “And what brings you here, Warden?”

“I have a project for Wade.”

Herren’s smile faded, just a little. “Project? What kind of project? Because—”

“Oh!” said Wade, stepping away from his forge and quickly moving to the counter to cut off Herren. “Tell me it’s challenging, tell me it’s unique, because this common drudgery is turning my artist’s mind to mush.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as she thought. “I’m not sure if it’ll be challenging, but I believe it’s unique. I need you to make me a ring.”

“Rings aren’t very difficult,” said Wade. “What sort of ring?”

Líadan drummed her fingers on the table Herren used as a makeshift countertop. “It’s a Dalish ring. Dalish in concept and design. Like a betrothal ring, I suppose.”

“That sounds wonderfully romantic,” said Herren.

“It won’t be romantic if either of you say something about it to anyone else.”

Herren put a hand to his chest in innocence. “They’ll never hear a word from me. I would never ruin romance.” He turned to his partner. “Wade?”

“Far be it from me to ruin another person’s happiness,” said Wade. “I’ll need to know who the ring is for so I make it the right size.”

“Really?” asked Herren. “You really needed to ask that?”

“I have to be _sure_. If it’s the wrong size—”

Líadan sighed. Creators, these two were just like an old bonded couple. “It’s for Malcolm.”

“This is a secret betrothal, I take it?” asked Herren. “A clandestine marriage! I love it. Wade, you _must_ do this.”

That was certainly a first. Normally, Herren did his best to discourage Wade from taking on these sorts of creative projects. They tended not to be as lucrative as standard smithing work, and with Wade being a perfectionist, he always spent an inordinate amount of time on any special projects. 

Wade sighed. “All right. It is for love, after all.” He turned to Líadan. “Did you have a design in mind?”

She blinked, caught out. “Ring shaped.” Great, now she sounded like Malcolm.

“One would never have guessed, considering it’s a ring,” said Wade.

And Wade sounded like her. She crossed her arms and studied the ground as she thought. “I haven’t had a lot of time to consider. You aren’t the only one who’s rushed and busy.” Inwardly, she cursed. _Yes, Líadan, antagonize the smith from whom you’re trying to curry favor. Brilliant strategy._ “All right, I’ve got one. Silver, somehow inscribed with the symbol for Sylaise the Hearthkeeper, and...” She stopped and looked up at Wade. “Would you be able to take the silver and somehow imbue it so in certain light and from certain angles it would appear bluish-green?” The combination would be a good one, she thought. The peace offered by Sylaise together with the protection provided by the light of Mythal.

Wade’s posture stiffened, as if she’d questioned his ability as a master smith. “Of course I can. But I am not familiar with the symbol you mentioned.”

“If you give me parchment and a quill or charcoal, I can try to sketch it for you.” And here would be a test of her education from Marethari, to see if she remembered the symbol properly. Not that Wade would know if she made a mistake, but she would know, and that would be enough. Wade handed her the items without a word, but stayed to watch as she quickly sketched out Sylaise’s symbol. Then she added script from the the _Vir Atish’an_ , the Way of Peace. Finished, she handed everything back over to Wade. 

His look on her work was appreciative, and his eyes flashed with an artist’s spark of a forming idea. “I can work with this,” he said. “I assume it does not need to be in these dimensions?”

“Do whatever you feel you need with it to make it work. You’re the artist. Other than those things I asked for, you have free reign.”

“And when did you say you needed it by?”

“Tomorrow.”

He stared at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You Grey Wardens. You simply do not understand _art_.”

“Wade,” Herren said in a normal tone of voice, and then dropped to a whisper as he leaned in close to his partner’s ear. “Clandestine marriage! Romance! You will be part of a wonderfully romantic tale.”

Wade let out a long sigh. “Fine. Warden, come by tomorrow around midafternoon and I should have it done.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you.” 

He returned her smile, but shook his head at the same time. “The things I do for young love.”


	14. Chapter 14

“We arrived in the dead of night. We had been tracking the maleficar for days, and finally had him cornered... or so we thought. ****

As we approached, a home on the edge of the town exploded, sending splinters of wood and fist-sized chunks of rocks into our ranks. We had but moments to regroup before fire rained from the sky, the sounds of destruction wrapped in a hideous laughter from the center of the village.

There, perched atop the spire of the village chantry, stood the mage. But he was human no longer.

We shouted prayers to the Maker and deflected what magic we could, but as we fought, the creature fought harder. I saw my comrades fall, burned by the flaming sky or crushed by debris. The monstrous creature, looking as if a demon were wearing a man like a twisted suit of skin, spotted me and grinned. We had forced it to this, I realized; the mage had made this pact, given himself over to the demon to survive our assault.”

— _transcribed from a tale told by a former templar in Cumberland_ , 8:84 Blessed

**Anders**

Within a week, templars had come frighteningly close to catching him. He’d managed to dodge them twice already, but wasn’t convinced he could slip from their grasp a third time. The group practically up his rear was particularly good at tracking. So good that he wondered if they’d taken lessons from the Dalish. Maybe they had a Dalish with them? Nah. He couldn’t see _any_ Dalish elf submitting themselves to the Chantry’s rule. That had been the whole reason the Dalish had formed—splitting off from their brethren who chose to worship Andraste and live in human cities. The ungrateful Dalish, according to the Chantry, had chosen to continue worshipping their pagan gods. Even the Dalish who ended up living among humans, such as those who became Grey Wardens, rarely gave up their belief in the Creators.

**_I do not see why relinquishing their beliefs would be necessary._ **

****_That’s because it isn’t, except in the eyes of the Chantry._

**_They seek too much control. The same as demons seek._ **

****_Yes, well,_ I’m _not going to be the one to tell them._

**_We should inform them so that they may change their ways._ **

****_That’ll be the day. And what is this ‘we’ stuff? There’s you, and there’s me. There’s no ‘we’ aside from you residing in my body for the moment._

**_We are not always separate._ **

****_I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that._

A rustle from the surrounding trees caught Anders’ attention and made Justice shut up for once. Anders had thought this clearing safe and had even set wards to keep it that way. The templars on his trail were at least a day behind him. His brilliant tactic of going toward Kirkwall—really, the last place an apostate mage should be going—had proven genius thus far. Perhaps these were inept bandits, not knowing they were about to try to rob a powerful mage. He frowned as he investigated the source of the sound, creeping forward toward the underbrush. A whisper, another rustle, and then Anders found himself on the ground, his magic drained by a smite.

He swore and scrambled for his stave, figuring he could knock some heads with it even if he had no magic. And _where_ had those blasted templars come from? There was no way they could’ve caught up with him already. 

A man wearing a Grey Warden tabard and helm burst from the underbrush, sword flashing in the sun. The tip quickly pressed against Anders’ neck, forcing him back onto the ground. “Found you,” said the man, his voice tinny under his helm. “I should kill you, apostate.”

Anders squinted. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “You should know, Wardens don’t generally kill apostates. Especially if said apostate is a Warden. Mages are amazing at killing darkspawn.”

Another man stepped out from the trees, this one wearing a Warden tabard, but no helm. The man possessed a long, flowing mustache that reminded Anders of Knight-Commander Thierry’s. “Anders is correct, Benoit. Remove your sword from your brother Warden’s neck,” the man said. As he spoke, four other Wardens moved into the clearing, spreading out to surround the other three.

Anders peered up at the Warden the other man had called Benoit, who slowly and reluctantly drew back his sword. It remained out of his scabbard, however, and pointed at Anders. “We should exercise more caution,” said Benoit.

The name was as familiar as the voice. Then Anders’ eyes went wide as he remembered. “Benoit! As in, _Ser_ Benoit, formerly under the command of Knight-Commander Thierry?”

Benoit shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if uncomfortable at Anders knowing who he was. “Yes. Though he was demoted to Knight-Captain Thierry and reassigned after the debacle with the prince. ”

Anders couldn’t help it. He laughed, though at Benoit’s plight rather than Thierry’s. The latter hadn’t been half bad for a templar. “So did you have a change of heart! Decided to join up and face the darkspawn after all? Or did you get thrown into the Deep Roads against your will?” If it was against Benoit’s will, he would be more than a little disappointed. Definitely something he would’ve liked to see.

“Not anymore a change of heart than you, apostate,” said Benoit. 

“I’m not an apostate. I’m a Grey Warden, same as you.”

“You left the Wardens. That makes you an apostate.” Benoit brandished his sword—a Sword of Mercy, no less—once again. “That makes you fair game.”

Anders rolled his eyes. The man had become a Warden, but hadn’t turned into one of the Wardens who happened to have templar skills, like Alistair or Malcolm. Instead, Benoit seemed to be a Warden who absolutely believed in everything the Chantry said, and who would do anything necessary to keep mages in their place, as the Chantry commanded. Still, it was worth a shot at pointing it out. “You’re a Warden now. What do you care?”

“I’m a templar first, just as you’ll always be a mage.”

“Really? You were born a templar as I was born a mage? Pity you weren’t born with some brains, as well. At least I remembered to get into that line when the Maker was handing them out.”

In answer, Benoit dug the tip of his sword in Anders’ neck.

The other man cleared his throat. “Stand down, Warden Benoit. Killing him would be a waste.”

Benoit kept his sword on Anders as he looked in outrage at the other man. “But—”

“Stand. Down.” Once Benoit had sheathed his sword and stepped back, the leader turned his attention to Anders. “You’re lucky we found you. A party of templars was only a half day behind you. No need to worry. We misdirected them so we could get to you first.”

“Should I thank you for that? It’s either being dragged back to the Grey Wardens or dragged back to the Circle of Magi for me. Either way, I don’t get to go where I’d like.”

“The templars would kill you,” said Benoit. “That is the safest course of action. We should do the same.”

“The Grey Wardens do not advocate wasting their resources,” the leader said. “Anders is a healer. He also knows a sizable array of offensive spells that are good at controlling large groups of darkspawn. We need him for our trip to the Deep Roads.”

And here Anders had been assuming that if any Wardens caught him, they’d send him back to Ferelden. “You’re keeping me?” he asked the leader. “But I don’t even know who you are.”

“I apologize,” the leader said with a nod. “My name is Stroud. I command the garrison in Ostwick. Our healer had to take his Calling recently, and we’ve yet to replace him. However, we’ve an assignment in the Deep Roads that cannot be delayed. When we heard you were last seen in this area, I decided that you would do.”

Anders had absolutely zero desire to go into the Deep Roads ever again. “How do you plan on keeping me from escaping?”

Without a word, Stroud motioned toward Benoit.

“All right, you make a convincing argument,” Anders said as he got to his feet. 

**_This will needlessly delay our task. You must decline._ **

****_I don’t know if you were listening, but they didn’t give me much of a choice._

**_You always have a choice._ **

****_Not unless I wanted to kill them all. That’s the only way I’d be able to escape._

**_The time will come when you must make that choice._ **

****_It certainly isn’t right now. These are my brother Wardens. Well, one looks like a sister Warden, but you get the general idea._

**_The time will come when it will be your_ only _choice._**

Andraste’s knickers, but Justice could get more than a little unnerving at times with his single-minded determination.

Anders brushed off his robes, and then looked at Stroud. “When do we leave?”

“Right now. The nearest entrance is a day away, outside Kirkwall. We should be there by tomorrow, allowing for time to camp and rest up tonight, and a supply stop in the morning.” Stroud met the gazes of the other Wardens in the clearing. “The Deep Roads will not be restful. The vigilance alone in avoiding the darkspawn will be tiring enough, not to mention if we must meet them in battle. Let’s go before the day passes us by.” With that, Stroud plunged back into the forest, not even looking to check to make sure the rest of the Wardens followed him.

Benoit sidled up to Anders and motioned him forward. “You walk in the middle, mage. And if you so much as tense like you’re going to run, I’ll smite you. In fact, I might just keep smiting you to make sure you don’t have a single opportunity to escape.”

“That would be unwise,” said Anders. “If we get attacked, I’ll be entirely useless. The last time I was in the company of templars who insisted on smiting me and we got attacked by darkspawn, two of them died. The last two would’ve died as well, but Wardens showed up and took care of the problem.”

“Do not smite Anders unless absolutely necessary,” Stroud said from the front. “And I will decide if it becomes necessary, Benoit. Not you.”

Anders kept his chuckle to himself when he heard Benoit’s huff of indignation. If Stroud kept up his scolding of the templar, this trip to the Deep Roads might not be so bad after all.

He kept up with feeling that way until the point where Benoit discovered that Anders had a half-grown kitten riding along in his pack. When he first found out, he merely sneered at Anders. But after they’d made camp for the night and all sat around the fire bolting down dinner, Benoit brought the matter up with Stroud. “Anders has a cat,” he said, almost conversationally.

“You mean in Ferelden, or actually _with_ him?” one of the other Wardens asked. His name was Ruairc, Anders recalled. He reminded him of Sigrun, somehow.

“With me,” said Anders. “I could never abandon Ser Pounce-a-Lot.” He reached into his pack and brought out the cat, giving him the food left over from his meal. 

“Do you expect to bring him into the Deep Roads with us?” Stroud asked.

“I think the Deep Roads would be a lot less scary if we all had a snuggly kitten with us,” said another Warden, Jaska. _He_ reminded Anders of how he was before he’d decided to let Justice share his body.

“Not if the cat has a demon in it,” said Benoit, who then turned to Stroud. “It can happen, you know. Mages will keep animals around, then a demon will possess an animal, and from there, the demon can leap over to the mage. I’ve heard of it happening at least once. Cat possessed by a rage demon at the Circle in Ferelden—killed three templars before it could be stopped. This apostate cannot be allowed to bring the cat into the Deep Roads with us. It could mean death for us all.”

Another Warden, Dardan, grumbled and said, “I thought the real threat in the Deep Roads were the _darkspawn_ , but what do I know?”

“Bless you, Mr. Wiggums,” Anders said under his breath.

Stroud looked from Benoit to Anders. “What was that?”

“Who, me? Nothing. Nothing at all.” Anders decided that Stroud must have the hearing of an elf. He’d have to watch his words more closely.

“Is what Benoit says true?” Stroud asked, seemingly growing more intense by the second.

“You’re not taking him seriously, are you? He just wants to torture me.”

“Answer the question.”

Anders sighed. “There were rumors about a possessed cat at Kinloch Hold.”

“I told you,” said Benoit.

“Oh, shut it,” said Dardan.

Stroud looked from Anders to the cat and back again. “You’ll have to get rid of it before we go into the Deep Roads.”

Anders stood, cradling Ser Pounce protectively in his arms. “What? No! I’m not _getting rid_ of my cat!” Maker, he knew the Wardens outside of Ferelden took their Wardening quite seriously, but this was bordering on fanatical. “If you expect me to kill my pet because Ser I-Can’t-Think-For-Myself is scared of it, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“What? I don’t expect you to kill it. That would be ridiculous. We’re stopping in Kirkwall tomorrow for supplies. You should find a child to give it to or something. Look, our mission in the Deep Roads isn’t going to be pleasant—”

“The Deep Roads never are,” said Anders. “Well, aside from Cadash thaig. If I had my druthers, I’d go there again. It could even make a good vacation spot, that’s how nice it is there.”

“Really?” asked Ruairc. “Maybe I can take my Calling there if it’s so nice. I’d like a Calling without darkspawn, personally.”

Stroud sighed again, and Anders was distinctly reminded of Riordan. He wondered if all Grey Warden commanders had to put up with this kind of behavior. Aside from Benoit, Anders found that he rather liked most of the Wardens who’d caught him. Stroud was a bit stuffy, but it only made him fondly remember Nathaniel. All right, mostly fondly. “You really cannot bring your cat, Anders. I apologize for that, but there’s nothing to do for it. Had you started out in our garrison, you could’ve kept it there.” He paused and gave Anders a quizzical look. “How is it that you had a cat out in the field in the first place? Why did your commander or Senior Warden not make you leave your cat in Ferelden?”

“Well, the Senior Wardens got to bring their dogs, so I got to bring my cat. I’ve been training Ser Pounce in darkspawn fighting techniques, but it’s a work in progress.”

The statement made Stroud do a double take. “Your Senior Wardens have dogs?”

“Two of them do, yes. I mean, they _are_ from Ferelden. They’ve got mabari. Oh! Ask Benoit, he’ll tell you all about them. One nearly ripped his throat out for threatening the prince. Also for being stupid.”

“Not surprised,” Dardan said as he sharpened his sword.

Stroud sighed yet again, and then stood. “Walk the perimeter with me, Anders. I need to tell you about our mission. You may yet have some insight that none of us do.”

Anders frowned, wondering how he’d know more than these other, more experienced—aside from Benoit—Wardens, but he followed the commander. He also returned Ser Pounce to his pack and brought it with him, just in case Benoit got any ideas.

As soon as they were at the treeline, Stroud said, “We’re going to the Deep Roads to look for the Architect.”

“On purpose?” 

“That was not the insight I was looking for.” Stroud sounded oddly disappointed in Anders’ flippant answer.

Anders felt somewhat bad, but Maker, who would voluntarily go after the Architect after what happened last time? Lunatics, that’s who. Also known as Grey Wardens. “What do you want to know? I assume Weisshaupt sent you the report that Riordan sent them. From what I read of it, it was quite accurate. Nothing was left out.”

**_That is a lie._ **

****_All right, nothing he_ needs _to know was left out. Stroud doesn’t need to know about personal stuff. Whatever thought you heard of mine, it was regarding personal matters with friends of mine. The friends you made me leave._

**_That was your choice._ **

****_Sometimes, I don’t think it was._

**_It is always your choice._ **

_Now who’s the liar?_

“I was hoping that perhaps you had an additional insight. Something that will help us find the Architect,” said Stroud, unknowingly interrupting the conversation between Anders and Justice.

“Let me think.” Anders went over their experience with the Architect, how he and the Wardens aside from Malcolm had been kept in a makeshift dungeon. How sometimes they found themselves waking up and not knowing how they’d fallen asleep. How, later, Malcolm had explained the Architect wanting Warden blood. All that had been in the report, though. The only thing they’d left out was what had happened between Malcolm and Líadan, but that part didn’t much matter. It really was personal. Sure, staying at Drake’s Fall to free her from the cave-in had delayed their trip to Kal’Hirol—wait, that was it. He looked over at Stroud. “Were you sent a report about something called the Mother?”

Stroud stroked his mustache, a frown beginning to pull at his mouth. “No, I was not.” 

“Right. Short version—a possessed female mage was tainted and turned into a broodmother by the Architect. She, and the demon, actually really liked the song from the Old Gods. Then the Architect, doing his weird quasi-Joining for darkspawn, cut her off from the song, and she pretty much went mad. She turned on the Architect, and using the similarly pissed off darkspawn who’d taken her side, went after him. Right before we killed her at Kal’Hirol, she told us that she’d sent another group of her darkspawn after him, and that he was north of where we were. She didn’t specify much more than that. So, as far as I know, there’s darkspawn still fighting each other—and they can all talk. Very unnerving.”

“Ah. That would explain why we’ve still got intermittent reports of that in the Deep Roads. The last report was near the Kirkwall entrance, which is why we’ve chosen that one. Thank you. Even that little bit of information may be of some help. At the very least, we’ll know to follow any darkspawn that talk.”

“Are you still going to make me get rid of my cat? I did help. And I’m still helping. I’m even going into the Deep Roads with you, without much complaint.”

“Were we not going into the Deep Roads, I would allow you to keep it. It isn’t possession I worry about—it’s your cat becoming tainted by the darkspawn. I suspect you would not want to see that happen. Am I correct in that assumption?”

Anders sighed. “You would be, yes. I just—fine.” It would be best for Ser Pounce, given that he really couldn’t fight darkspawn. And what if became separated from his pack? Or it was stolen? Ser Pounce would be abandoned in the Deep Roads and that would be horrible. “Hopefully I can find someone suitable.”

By mid-morning the next day, they had entered Kirkwall. They entered through the Gallows, which did nothing to make Anders feel better. While he watched the mage prison—Circle of Magi or no, with the name it had and how many bars it kept closed, it was a prison—warily, Benoit looked at it with admiration. 

“That’s how mages should be kept,” Benoit said.

Jaska rolled his eyes. “So help me, I will beat you if you go on about how mages should be treated. You aren’t a templar anymore. You’re a Grey Warden. Since you haven’t noticed on your own, let me explain to you: Wardens _like_ mages. Mages can kill groups of darkspawn in numbers higher than you could even dream of doing yourself. Mages save our lives. They can heal us from wounds that would kill us using non-magical healing methods. You’re an idiot if you think the Wardens could survive without the help of mages.”

“He _is_ an idiot,” said Anders. He’d seen plenty of evidence of that in Ferelden. 

“Not helping,” said Stroud. “We need to get going. I think the templars have caught wind of you, and while you’ve got immunity as a Warden, I don’t relish the delay of a protracted argument with them. They’re particularly dogged here. We shouldn’t encounter too much trouble in Lowtown, and there are better prices there.”

Anders was fairly certain he heard Benoit give a wistful sigh as they left the Gallows courtyard. Once in Lowtown, Stroud set to obtaining supplies, and sent Anders to look around Lowtown with Benoit and Jaska—Benoit to keep Anders from making a run for it, and Jaska to protect Anders from an overzealous Benoit. The rest of the Wardens went with Stroud, and they agreed to meet at the docks in an hour. Before they split, Dardan said to Anders, “You should look for some Fereldan refugees to take in your cat. They might have some sympathy for a fellow Fereldan, provided they don’t hold anything against mages. That’ll probably be your best bet.”

**_If the refugees are not destitute, like the rest of the denizens here_.**

****_I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this to you, but you suffer from a serious lack of optimism._

**_I do not suffer without optimism. I am a realist, as Justice should be._ **

****_Realist, stick-in-the-mud, same difference._

He stopped the internal conversation when he felt a very, very subtle tingle of magic from someone nearby. A quick glance at Benoit revealed that the former templar had yet to feel it. Ha, shows how the man hadn’t been very good at his former trade. But when they got close to the most likely apostate mage, he’d have to rely on Jaska to keep Benoit from doing anything stupid. Anders wove through the crowd, heading past the Hanged Man—what _was_ it with this city and hanging?—down some stairs and into very small market area. He pinpointed the location of the other mage, surprised to discover that it was two mages together. Ballsy, he thought, even if both mages were women. A human and a Dalish elf, perusing over trinkets spread out on a table by one of the vendors.

“I feel magic,” said Benoit.

“You’re walking next to a mage. Of course you do,” said Jaska.

Benoit frowned and surveyed the market. “No, not Anders. Other mages. Apostates.”

Jaska grabbed Benoit by the arm and dragged him aside. “For the love of the Maker, you’re a _Grey Warden_. Tracking down and turning in or killing apostates isn’t your job any longer. If you try to do anything to the apostates you claim to feel, I will take you into a back alley and explain what it means to be a Warden with my fists. And possibly one of my feet up your arse.”

Part of Anders wanted to see that. “He’s at least somewhat right,” he said to Jaska. “There are other mages here. Perhaps one of them will be willing to take care of my cat.” He hoped it would be true. Mostly because it would irritate the shit out of Benoit. “Be right back.” Then he waved to Benoit and strode toward the two fellow apostates. As he walked away, he heard a hastily strangled shout when Benoit tried to follow and Jaska took care of the little problem. A quick glance behind him revealed that Jaska had made good on at least part of his threat, dragging Benoit into one of Lowtown’s many alleys. A half-smile on his face, along with his kitten in his arms, Anders approached the two other mages.

“Thank you for coming with me. I keep getting lost here,” the Dalish elf said to her companion. “The last time I came here by myself it took me four hours to find my way home.”

“Four hours?” asked the human woman. “Where did you go?”

“Everywhere.” The elf shrugged. “At least, that’s what Varric told me when he found me.”

Anders cleared his throat. “Excuse me, could I speak with you two for a moment?”

The Dalish elf immediately cooed at the kitten in Anders’ arms. “Is that a tabby kitten?”

Meanwhile, the human mage had been warily sizing up Anders, but she sighed at her friend’s reaction. “I suppose so.”

After tucking Ser Pounce into the crook of one arm, he proffered his hand. “Anders.”

She shook the offered hand, tentatively and then firmly. “Bethany. Why’s it you want to speak with us?”

“I’m a Grey Warden, and we’re about to go into the Deep Roads, and—”

Bethany crossed her arms. “Is this a proposition? Marian warned me about things like this, said it’s something Isabela would do.”

Anders blinked. “No! Nothing of the sort. See, we’re going into the Deep Roads and I can’t take my cat. I don’t want him to get tainted or killed by the darkspawn. I was looking for someone to take care of him for me.”

“Oh! Me!” said the elf. “I’d love a kitten.” Then she seemed to remember manners. “My name’s Merrill. Does your cat have a name? Do humans name cats? The Dalish don’t name halla, but we do name the deerhounds.”

He deposited the kitten into Merrill’s arms, wondering if this Dalish elf was the Merrill that had been discussed when they had visited the Mahariel clan. The similarities were too many to be coincidence. A Dalish elf in Kirkwall, goes by the name Merrill, and was a mage. He didn’t want to outright ask yet, just on the slim chance that he was wrong in his supposition. “His name is Ser Pounce-a-Lot.”

Merrill stroked the kitten’s sleek fur, and then looked up at Anders. “Ser Pounce-a-Lot? Who knighted him?”

Anders looked from Merrill to Bethany. “Is that a serious question?”

“Could be. I can never tell,” said Bethany.

He returned to Merrill, who was turning out to be _very_ different from either of the Dalish elves he’d known before. Líadan was bristly until you got to know her, Velanna, in her best moments, was _always_ bristly, and this elf seem to be quite open and friendly and possibly even naive. “It’s just the name I gave him. No real knighthood for Ser Pounce.”

Merrill seemed slightly disappointed as she regarded Ser Pounce. “Oh, too bad. No jaunty cap with a feather for him.” Then she squinted in thought and looked at Anders again. “Did you say you were a Grey Warden?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be going into the Deep Roads otherwise. It isn’t exactly a vacation spot.”

“Did you...” She shuffled her feet as she danced around the question. “Did you ever meet a Dalish Warden? Líadan?”

He smiled. He’d been right, after all. “I did. Before I was... reassigned, I traveled with her and some other Fereldan Wardens for months. Why? Did you know her?”

“We grew up together. She was one of my clan. I was hoping to hear some news. I haven’t heard anything about her since the end of the Blight. I know she was there, fighting the Archdemon, and that she lived, but that’s all I know. How is she?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer, not exactly. The first answer that popped into his mind was ‘expecting’ but he suspected that Líadan herself still didn’t know. In addition, he remembered the awkwardness at the Dalish camp, and then Oisín’s anger when he discovered it on the ship from Ayesleigh. It’d been all Anders could do to keep him from telling Líadan, and then castigating—or worse—the human male responsible. Only appealing to the situation at large kept Oisín quiet, and possibly Malcolm unharmed. Anders had lost his own temper with Oisín in the argument, and hadn’t been very friendly to Malcolm afterward. He regretted it, especially since it’d been one of his last interactions with his friend before he’d left. Aside from that, though, Líadan had seemed fairly happy, if you ignored the Morrigan thing. “She’s doing well,” he finally said to Merrill. “Still with the Fereldan Wardens. When we were all traveling together, we did stop to see the Mahariel.”

Merrill smiled, and Anders could tell she was glad to hear her clanmate was okay. “Oh, I bet Marethari was happy to see her. She’d felt so bad after Líadan left. Líadan hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d been tainted by the eluvian, and if she hadn’t gone with the Wardens, she would have died like Tamlen. Marethari fretted over it for weeks afterward, and never quite got over sending her away, even though it saved her life.”

“Well, the Keeper hugged her almost as soon as we walked into the camp, so I think she was happy to see her return.” He frowned. “And then after that, it seemed all they did was argue.”

Merrill didn’t seem bothered by the news. “That’s how they normally were. They cared about each other, but they butted heads all the time. They’re both very stubborn.”

Anders really wanted to ask about the eluvian, but it didn’t seem wise to discuss something like that out in the open. Or to bring up Merrill’s exile or that Marethari kept insisting Líadan become her First.

“Did you say Fereldan Wardens?” asked Bethany. “You’re from Ferelden?”

“Born and raised,” said Anders. “Well, if growing up in the Circle counts as being raised. I’m not so sure it does.”

“Then you _are_ a mage. I thought so.” Bethany glanced around, looking panicky. “There could be templars anywhere. You should—”

Anders held up a hand to stop her before she got herself too worked up for no reason. “Have no worries. Being a Grey Warden means the Chantry doesn’t get to control me. Sadly, it also means more than occasional trips to the Deep Roads. Grey Wardens go there a lot. Seems to be their thing.”

“No, not just Grey Wardens. My sister seems determined to go on an expedition into the Deep Roads in the coming months. Or weeks. It’s hard to tell—it’s a dwarf who’s in charge of the expedition, but they want my sister to help monetarily back the trip. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but she never listens to me. I’d say it’s because I’m the younger sister, but she never listens to _any_ one.”

He needed to explain to this woman’s sister that going into the Deep Roads voluntarily was a very bad idea. Maker, going into the Deep Roads _in_ voluntarily was a bad idea. Bad idea all around. “Where’s your sister now? Maybe a Grey Warden or three could convince her otherwise.”

“Good luck with that. She isn’t even in the city. Something about saving escaped mages from the Starkhaven Circle. They’re surrounded by templars and most of them don’t want to be brought to Kirkwall.”

“What happened to Starkhaven’s Circle? They could just be brought back there.”

“Burned to the ground. Most of the mages there died, aside from the few who escaped. If they’re brought to the Gallows, I’m not sure how many will live, or how many will end up Tranquil for continuing to run after the fire instead of turning themselves in to the templars.”

“They shouldn’t _have_ to turn themselves in. They’re people, just like anyone else. And they’ll kill them or make them Tranquil just because they had the audacity to escape their burning home?”

**_It is not just._ **

****_It isn’t right._

**_This treatment of mages must be stopped, here and now._ **

****_There’s nothing I can do at the moment. Deep Roads. Wardens. Obligations to them and not wanting to kill them to get out of said obligations._

**_This issue is more important than a few lives._ **

****_Maybe to you. Not to me._

**_Mages will continue to be oppressed or die until we act._ **

****The anger flared through Anders again, the hottest he’d ever felt it, and he lost himself again, unable to tell where Justice started and Anders ended or if Anders even existed. He didn’t remember the rest of the conversation with Bethany and Merrill, or if there even was anymore conversation with them. He didn’t remember leaving Kirkwall with the Wardens, didn’t remember arriving at the Deep Roads. It wasn’t until they were trudging through the darkness in the perpetual night that he came to himself. He kept quiet for a time, trying to gauge how he’d been behaving. Benoit hadn’t killed him, so he figured he must’ve been acting mostly normal.

After a couple more days, he began to hate the Deep Roads more, and hadn’t thought that possible. Benoit never left his side, not through waking or sleeping or eating or even visits to makeshift privies. It was worse than the Circle—the templars there had at least let him tend to bodily functions in private. If Benoit didn’t give him some space, some breathing room, he was going to... he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. It wasn’t like he could escape. Separating from the Wardens now would just be an early Calling. He’d never make it out alive.

Stroud called out a halt. “Someone approaches.”

“Darkspawn?” asked Dardan.

“No. A solitary traveler.” Stroud stared into the shadows of the road ahead, and the rest of the Wardens did the same.

Soon enough, the figure emerged. Though Anders had never met this person, he immediately recognized her from many descriptions. “Flemeth.”

She gave him a small smile of recognition and he wondered if she knew about Justice. He’d put coin on it that she did. But she didn’t give him away. Instead, she simply nodded. “Wardens.” Then she turned her attention to Stroud. “Is there some purpose to your being in these Deep Roads? There is no Blight. None of you are yet at your Calling. What brings you here? Simple curiosity?”

“We’ve been sent to find the Architect,” said Stroud.

She lifted an eyebrow. “You seek the Architect? Do you think it wise?”

Anders glanced over at Stroud. “You know, when a being as powerful as Flemeth asks if something we’re doing is wise, we should probably take the hint.”

Stroud didn’t bother looking back. Instead, he kept his eyes on Flemeth. “I have my orders.”

“I’m beginning to think your orders are stupid,” said Anders.

“Your objection is noted. However, we must press forward. We are Grey Wardens, Anders. Act like one.”

Great, now Stroud was lecturing him like he did with Benoit. Fantastic company he was in. Anders sighed, but kept the rest of his opinion to himself.

Flemeth regarded Stroud for another moment, allowing her hands to drop from her hips. “It will be to your folly,” she said. “You are not ready for what you will find. Heed my words or not; change is coming to your lives—or an end. The choice is yours.” She stepped forward, brushing past the Wardens without issue. “Now, if you would excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

Then she was gone in the shadows behind them. Not even Benoit voiced a challenge.

“We move onward,” said Stroud.

Two more days of trudging and fighting skirmishes with darkspawn brought them to an older section of the Deep Roads. They entered a large rotunda from an elevated stairway, and Stroud led the descent to the stone floor below. As Anders studied the paving stones, he thought he recognized symbols he’d seen before, the same symbols that Velanna had stepped on in Drake’s Fall. 

“Stop!” Anders shouted, just before Stroud moved off the stairs and triggered the same trap. 

To Stroud’s credit, he did stop, unlike Velanna, and pulled his foot back while looking up at Anders. “What is it?”

“Trap.” Anders motioned towards the glyph. “Not sure if you can see it since you aren’t a mage or Nathaniel, who can see every kind of trap ever, but it’s there. It’s the same kind that got us in Drake’s Fall.” Nathaniel would’ve been so proud of him spotting a trap all on his own.

Stroud motioned the Wardens back up the stairs. “Then we will have to decide how we want to trigger it on our terms.”

Anders frowned. “Not sure if that’s a good idea. I mean—”

Then the press of the taint, once a background annoyance, become pressing, almost suffocating. 

“We’re surrounded!” said Ruairc. 

“Go!” Stroud pushed at the Wardens in front of them, urging them to run up the stairs. “Back the way we came! It’s our only chance!”

Lightning crackled behind him, accompanied by a voice Anders had never wanted to hear again. “You will not escape,” said the Architect. “You might as well surrender.”

“Not bloody likely,” said Stroud. Then he got in front of the Wardens, leading them down the road. “I know another exit from here. I saw it on the maps I was studying last night.”

Anders wasn’t convinced they’d make it, but he was willing to try. He also realized they were in for a lot of running, and talking wouldn’t be an option very soon. 

They ran all day, dodging darkspawn, dodging the Architect’s attacks. Dardan fell first, tripped up by his own feet, and then overrun by hurlocks. Ruairc was the next, caught by a crushing prison, dropped, and then savaged by genlocks. They ran faster. Anders cast as many rejuvenation spells as his mana allowed. He couldn’t make them run faster, not if they wanted to _keep_ running, but he could make sure they stayed ahead, if just barely. He hated this. He hated the Wardens. He hated seeing fellow Wardens die for stupid things, their bodies left in the Deep Roads for the darkspawn to violate. 

His mana reserves started flagging just as soon as they saw a light.

“Exit’s there,” said Stroud. 

“How are we going to keep them from running out right behind us?” Jaska asked between huffs. “It isn’t like they’ll melt in daylight.”

“Leave that to me,” said Anders. He’d learned enough from last time with Líadan and the Architect’s spell combination. He also knew enough to _not_ let himself get caught in the rock collapse that would follow.

Stroud urged the remaining Wardens out the exit while Anders drew up almost all his remaining mana and cast the two necessary spells. As soon as the rumbles began, Anders bolted from the cave’s entrance, pushing Stroud out right before him.

The Wardens watched silently as the entrance collapsed, rocks and boulders tumbling from what had once been a stable ceiling, until the entire thing was filled. “Mark _that_ entrance off the map,” Anders said, dusting off his robes.

“Impressive,” said Jaska. “Bet the Architect’s pissed.”

“Very likely,” said Anders.

Jaska smirked at Benoit. “See? That’s why Wardens need mages. They save our collective asses with tricks like that.”

Benoit said nothing and kept a dark glare on the filled cave.

They made camp only a hundred feet away, too tired to travel any farther. It meant they had two Wardens per watch, with their dwindling numbers coupled with their exhaustion, but they had no other choice.

Anders found himself on watch with Stroud. At first, Stroud was quiet, studying the small campfire and relying on his ability to sense darkspawn instead of preserving his night vision. It was probably also the only way he could stay awake. Anders certainly wouldn’t be able to, otherwise. 

“You saved our lives back there,” Stroud said, sitting back from the fire.

“Seemed the right thing to do.”

“More than once.”

“You’re welcome.” Anders thought it prudent not to mention that Justice had wanted to end their lives so they could fight the other good fight.

Stroud sighed. “Will you try to escape now that we’re out of the Deep Roads? We are not Wardens who are close to you. We are not your friends, not like the Fereldan Wardens, and you even left them.”

“The truth?”

“That would be preferable.”

“Then, yes, most likely. Not tonight—I’m too tired for that. But I know that eventually, I’ll leave.”

For a few minutes, Stroud went back to contemplating the fire and stroking his mustache. Then he said, “My choices are to either assign Benoit to stay with you at all times—which will quickly drive you mad—or to let you go on your way.” He dropped his hand and looked over at Anders. “It isn’t a Blight. Leaving isn’t desertion at the moment. And energy is better spent elsewhere over keeping a Warden in garrison when he doesn’t want to be there. It isn’t like you can escape the taint. Sooner or later, you’ll return. You saved our lives, Anders, and you didn’t have to. You could have let us die and attempted to make your way out, free of us. Instead, you stayed, and you saved us. For that, and for the other reasons I mentioned, I will let you go.”

“Benoit won’t like that.”

“Benoit has a lot to learn. I’m of a mind to send him to Ferelden.”

Anders couldn’t hold in laugh, not between gaining his freedom without bloodshed and Benoit being assigned to Ferelden. “I appreciate it. I mean, thank you. However, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to sleep after my watch and leave in the morning. I’m exhausted.”

“We all are.”

Silence fell between them for the rest of the watch. At dawn, Anders set out from the campsite, heading north, towards Kirkwall. He’d been a healer once. A good one. Perhaps there was good he could do there instead of leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

Along the way, needing to replenish his healing supplies, he collected elfroot he saw growing at the sides of the path. Then he decided to find other poultice components and found a meadow off the side of the road, through a small stand of trees. But as he gathered the plants and herbs, he felt like he was being watched. He looked around and saw no one, yet couldn’t shake the feeling. Had templars found him already? Or had the Wardens changed their minds?

He caught a glint of bared steel and the wing of a Grey Warden helm. Only one Warden close by wore a helm like that—Benoit. And it wasn’t just him. He saw other flashes of metal, other helms. 

Templars.

Anders dropped the bundle of elfroot he’d gathered, and then turned, summoning his magic to his fingertips as he did. Benoit, accompanied by over a dozen templars and no Wardens, rushed from the undergrowth.

**_It is time._ **

Justice had gotten stronger. Anders could almost feel the spirit flexing his metaphorical muscles. _Time?_

**_Accept all that I am. Together, we can remake Thedas into a world where justice rules, not fear._ **

****A vision came to him, one of a world with no Circle and no templars. Mages with homes and families. A world without apostates. A world without maleficars. A world where magic was a gift from the Maker, and not the Maker’s curse.

As the templars closed in, the traitor Benoit leading them, Anders realized that the time to choose, to _really_ choose, had come. He either accepted Justice’s offer, or he submitted himself to the will of the Chantry once more. He could either be compliant and obedient and guilty of being born a mage, or he could accept what was being freely given and introduce justice to a world sorely lacking in it.

Thedas, as it stood, repulsed him.

Change needed to come to the world.

He would be an agent of that change.

“I accept.”

On hearing those two words spoken out loud by Anders, Benoit shouted, “See! He’s an abomination! Even Wardens can’t abide abominations! I’ve seen them kill one before. Kill him! Rid the world of another!”

On saying those two words, Anders felt the surge of something that was _not him_ , and power thrummed through his entire body, power of a strength he’d never dared to imagine.

It felt _good_.

_I am Anders._ **_I am Justice_ ** _._

**_I am..._ **

Did it matter who he was? No. It only mattered that he rid the world of injustice, starting here, starting now.

He set them all on fire and watched them as they died.

Those who had hunted him turned to ashes in an instant. They would hunt him no more. They were dead. He could kill them all if he so wished. And he did. He would. Every templar, every priest, every sister, every cleric, all who would stand in the way of freedom would die. There would be justice. There would be retribution. He would make sure of it.

**_I am Vengeance._ **


	15. Chapter 15

“Compassion, mercy, justice—they matter not when Teyrn Simeon invades your land, subverts your nobles, and takes what’s yours. He grew bitter and impatient with us and ours, and these sentiments were often returned. But others could see he had a vision of something better than the endless petty wars of teyrns and arls.” ****

— _from The Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

****Malcolm made good on his escape from the Dalish camp, not wanting to overstay his welcome, and knowing Lanaya had wanted to speak with Líadan privately. He found Alistair and Fergus standing with Anora and Cauthrien in the middle of the destroyed section of the castle. Not only had it been one of the larger sections the dragon had smashed, but it had also housed half the guest apartments. Witnesses claimed the dragon had landed on one of the corner towers, and then proceeded to light everything on fire. The inferno, in addition to the dragon stomping around on the roof, had caused the structure to collapse. Luckily, it had been one of the annexes attached to the main keep by only paved outside corridors, so the fire hadn’t leapt to the main building, and the rubble had fallen clear as well.

However, the section was well and truly unusable. He did hope the others had come up with something while conferencing with the dwarves. Mostly, he counted on the dwarves being brilliant, not his brothers. Anora had a chance, but she wasn’t as well-versed in masonry as she was many other topics. As for Cauthrien, her strength laid in military strategy and tactics, so unless they were preparing to assault the rubble, she wouldn’t be much help, either.

 ****“I hope your tent is clean and serviceable,” Fergus said when he saw Malcolm approach.

He frowned. “You really _are_ kicking out the Wardens?”

“No one else is really hardy enough to take being relegated to tents in stride.” Fergus motioned toward one of the dwarves. “Voldrik Glavonik is a master stonemason and the supervisor of the reconstruction crew. He can explain.”

“Dragon must’ve been something,” Voldrik said, waving at the destruction around them before leading them on an inspection of the area. “It was dwarven work that rebuilt this keep in the first place, and for a dragon to destroy that, well. Unheard of, really. The place can be reconstructed, sure, but it’ll take some time, especially since we’re doing it properly. Some of the old construction can be reused, as well as the foundations that were already dug, but otherwise, everything’s got to be hauled away. When your—who was it who was visiting?”

“The Divine,” said Anora. “In three days.”

“Aye, Divine. Well, by the time she gets here, we’ll have most of this area cleared of rubble. A couple inner structures were intact, bathing and privy facilities, it seems. We can fix those up to work properly—and hygienically, because the dwarves have some things figured out better than you humans—so that whoever gets kicked out to make room for this woman won’t go entirely without creature comforts. Warm, clean water and privies without drafts go a long way toward making field conditions tolerable. Fergus has also agreed to let us make the same improvements throughout his castle. We’ve got runes that can run your water as well as make it warm. No more need to have servants heating bath water in a large cauldron, and then lugging buckets and buckets around the keep. Any rate, there’s just no way to get a solid roof over everyone’s head if you do add more guests in three days.”

Malcolm looked over at Fergus. “You realize this means you’re kicking out the King, right? Alistair’s a Warden, same as me. Can’t you just make the templars she brings go sleep with the _other_ templars?”

“I am,” said Fergus. “And I’m not kicking out the King. Wouldn’t be proper. If the Divine doesn’t bring too many priests and lay brothers and sisters, we might be able to fit everyone in so long as we put the templars in the field. We’ll squeeze the Wardens to three, maybe four per room if we have to, and have pallets added between bunks in the barracks for the soldiers and guards. If they don’t want to bunk up like that, they’re welcome to tents.”

“Proper guest protocol will be very hard to follow,” said Anora, seeming quite put out at the prospect. Considering her insistence on proper manners at nearly all times, her irritation was understandable. “It’s also been a long time since the Divine herself has visited Ferelden. While that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it would benefit us to conduct ourselves with the utmost care. I suspect the Chantry, especially the Divine, will very touchy on the subject of our country for the time being. We wouldn’t want to—”

“Piss them off?” asked Malcolm.

Anora shot him a glare for his impertinence, but she tolerated it well after dealing with it for months. “Incite them.”

“Same difference,” said Voldrik. 

Alistair blew air through his lips as he surveyed the area. After exchanging a nod with Fergus, and turned to Anora. “How about you and Cauthrien work with Voldrik to figure out accommodations? You know the etiquette involved far better than I do. Fergus and I can speak with the kitchens about food. If Grey Wardens know anything, we know about food.”

“And here I thought Wardens knew about ending Blights,” said Malcolm.

“Eh,” said Voldrik. “I’ve seen Wardens in Orzammar bolt down enough food to feed the Legion of the Dead for an entire week.”

Cauthrien gave the dwarf a disbelieving look. “Surely, you must be exaggerating.”

“Not by much,” said Alistair. “It’s far more an accurate estimate than any Warden would like to admit.” He looked at Anora again. “How’s the plan sound?”

She nodded. “Workable. To be fair, your knowledge of court and international etiquette has come far, Alistair. However, considering we must not, at all costs, irritate the Divine further, it would be best if I saw to the sleeping arrangements. It’s much harder to insult guests with the types of food, and Robert will be directing the serving, so mistakes should be absent there.”

“All right.”Alistair started for the intact main keep, waving Malcolm to accompany him, and Fergus just behind them. 

Once they were out of earshot of Teyrna Cauthrien, Malcolm brought up an issue he thought Cauthrien might be a little sensitive about. “Wait, I thought of something.”

“Should I mark the occasion?” asked Fergus.

Malcolm scowled at him. “No. But the Divine is surely going to ask about her general, right? The one who led the Orlesians? The one we didn’t separate out from the rest of the templars before the pyres, but we somehow still have his armor, I heard?”

“It was a her, actually,” said Alistair. “Her name was Knight-Vigilant Valeria. When I asked about her, Thierry told me there were rumors she was to be made a Knight-Divine.”

Malcolm frowned. “I thought the highest templar rank was Knight-Vigilant.”

“It is. Usually. It’s a rank bestowed upon only the holiest and most skilled of templars. It also means that if the Knight-Vigilant is promoted to Knight-Divine, another templar can be promoted to Knight-Vigilant in their stead. Two high-ranking templars for the price of one, and then you can send one of them out to do your errands and keep the other one close.”

“So, we probably shouldn’t tell her how she was slain on the field by our own general,” said Fergus. “Diplomacy and all.”

Alistair nodded. “I think I’ll let Anora field that one.”

By the time they were through the castle doors, Fergus had taken the lead and brought them to his study. 

Malcolm frowned. “I thought we were going to the kitchens.” There were snacks to be had in the kitchens. Also second breakfasts, maybe third breakfasts, and with how long the inspection had taken, it was getting fairly close to the midday meal.

“Later,” said Fergus. “Now, sit.”

He did as he was asked, but not without a wary look at each of his brothers. “What’s this about? It hasn’t escaped my notice that if we’re to have civil conversations—you know, the kind without fists—you have us meet in here.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow. “I could arrange for fists, if that’s what you’d prefer. Adjourning to the training yard isn’t out of the question.”

“It is for a while,” said Alistair as he settled into one of the chairs. “Hildur’s got her new recruits training out there. I’m not going to be the one to tell her to clear out so we can settle our differences like barbarians.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” said Malcolm.

“Anora may have said something like that when I returned to our room last night.”

“And I thought she was okay with our brotherly fights.”

Alistair nodded. “She was also disappointed there was no clear winner.”

“That’s more like it.”

“Pity about the yard.” Fergus sighed, placed his elbows on his desk, and then turned to Malcolm. “We wanted to know what happened after you left last night.”

He shrugged. “I wandered.” At the alarmed looks from both, he held up his hands. “On castle grounds. I didn’t even go beyond the outer wall, so calm down. And I did go to the keep first, to see if I could find Cáel. But he was in the Dalish camp with Panowen and Ariane, so that was a bust.”

“I’m happy you found a suitable new nurse,” said Alistair. “It would’ve gotten really difficult when we eventually left Highever. I doubt Lanaya would have had the clan keep traveling with us, and Panowen and Ariane didn’t seem exactly eager—or willing—to live among humans. Nor would I expect them to. They aren’t Wardens or city elves; they’ve no reason to stay, aside from Cáel. And I know they do care a great deal for him. The entire clan seems to.” He adjusted his position in the chair. “Anyway. Go on.”

Malcolm shot him a look thanking him for giving permission when he didn’t require it, and continued, very grateful that he and Líadan had figured out details of what to say to the others before they’d gone to sleep last night. “Eventually Líadan came back. And... we talked. She’s staying with me, and will be a mother to Cáel, but she won’t bond with me.”

Alistair did a double take. “She really won’t? For Andraste’s sake, why not? She clearly loves you. She even said she has no plans to leave your side, and I know you feel the same way about her. And the thing about agreeing to raise Cáel! Why would she refuse to bond? To marry you and shut up all those plotting nobles at court who think to have their daughters—or any female relative, really—win your hand?”

“I’m not even sure they’ve entirely given up catching your fancy,” said Fergus. “Remember, they don’t know that you both have the same mother. To them, Maric had one son with his wife, and then had two bastards with two different women. They could be pinning their hopes on the son acting much like the father.”

Alistair chuckled. “Maybe with the elf thing.”

Malcolm sighed and slumped in his chair. “It isn’t like I have a thing for elves. I hardly think _one_ really sets a trend.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” said Fergus. “Your trend is mages, actually.”

That made Malcolm draw a weary hand over his face. “Purely circumstance.”

“Back on topic.” Alistair leaned forward in his chair. “Did she give you a reason for refusing?”

“She’s... she’s too concerned about how the Mahariel will react. They already exiled their First for an offense Líadan and other Dalish don’t think called for exile. She thinks they would do the same to her if she bonded with a human. Mostly because that actually _is_ a valid reason for exile.”

“But the Grey Wardens are her clan.” Alistair frowned, still not satisfied with the explanation. “She said as much, and Keeper Lanaya agreed.”

Malcolm sat up straight, remembering the very real, very valid fear that had plagued Líadan before they’d visited the Mahariel. “Alistair, it’s one thing to leave your family behind to join a new one. But it’s a whole other thing entirely to be banished from your birth family forever. To the Mahariel, it would be as if she had never existed. Would you really expect her to risk that? To suffer through that sort of thing?” It helped Malcolm in making his case that everything he said was true—these were all reservations Líadan had. He just wouldn’t mention that Lanaya would take up Líadan’s cause, both with the Mahariel and at the _Arlathvhen_ , if it became necessary. 

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t. I just...” Alistair scowled. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m sure neither of them are exactly thrilled with the situation,” said Fergus.

“No. No, we’re not,” said Malcolm. “But her reasons for refusing aren’t the only ones. As much as you and Alistair are content to ignore it, the Chantry is still a factor. We both know that no one in the line of succession for a ruling royal house can knowingly marry a mage without a dispensation from the Divine. Commoners and the rest of the nobility are exempt from that rule, but we aren’t. And I doubt the Divine would be inclined to grant us a favor.”

Alistair threw his hands up in defeat. “Well... damn.”

Fergus drummed his fingers on the desk. “I hadn’t even thought of that, and I was taught that rule as a boy, same as Malcolm. Blast. Maybe in a few years there’d be hope of you getting a dispensation, or if the current Divine dies and the new one doesn’t hate us quite as much, there’d be a better chance, possibly sooner.” He pushed his chair back on two legs. “It just rankles, somehow, the whole thing. It’s so easy to forget that Líadan is a mage because she rarely uses her magic, and she even says that her ability is on the weak side. It doesn’t seem fair that something so insignificant to her and the rest of us is of such significance to the Chantry. Such a big deal that they insist on stopping mages from marrying into royal lines, lest the royal house suddenly start teeming with magic.”

“They do know that my mother is a mage,” said Malcolm. “Even if the Landsmeet passes an act of legitimation for Cáel, the Chantry could put forth an official objection, even if they never did for me. Especially since it’s known that Morrigan gave birth to him. That’s two major issues right there.”

“An objection from the Chantry would render the same result as disinheriting Cáel,” said Alistair. “Which really wouldn’t be wise, because that would have everyone depending me having an heir of my own.”

“Or hoping that I’ll put Líadan aside, find a suitable human wife, and have an heir who would only have one mage ancestor.”

“Ha. That’ll be the day. Though I’d be surprised if Cáel didn’t turn out a mage between Fiona, Morrigan, and _Flemeth_.”

“He might not. Morrigan said he wouldn’t be, which is part of the reason why she left him with me, because he would need martial training, not magical training.”

“I’ll be convinced when I see it,” said Alistair.

“This is sad,” said Fergus. “I was kind of hoping for a wedding. Nice change of pace. And there’d be the advantage of court becoming slightly more bearable. Now it’ll just continue relentlessly.”

“Maybe,” said Malcolm, suddenly very uncomfortable in his chair. There was a chance that the pressure would lessen, if for a little while, once Líadan began to show. And he really, really needed to tell his brothers, for a couple reasons. One was that once they found out he and Líadan had bonded in secret, they would be incredibly hurt. Yes, they’d understand the reasoning behind it, but still be hurt that they’d missed it. The other was that Alistair, as King, had to know as soon as possible. He and Anora would have to figure out how to handle it, and the more time they had to prepare for it, the better. “Maybe not.”

With an audible thud, Fergus allowed his chair to drop back to all four legs. Then he leaned forward over his desk, fixing Malcolm with a level look. “Little brother, you’re acting like you’re suddenly sitting on hot coals. What is it you’re not telling us?”

And Malcolm then fully understood Líadan’s reticence from last night when she had to tell him. He mumbled a statement about not engaging in certain activities around Sundermount, not quite ready to out and out say it, but wanting Fergus, for the love of the Maker, to _stop looking at him like that_. It put him on edge and he was nervous about this enough as it was.

“All I got from that was something about Sundermount,” said Alistair. “Which really makes no sense at all.”

“Quit with the mumbling,” said Fergus. “Out with it.”

Malcolm wanted to fidget. He needed something to fidget with, and had nothing. He shifted in his chair again, highly aware of the creaking noise it made, scuffed his boots across the stone floor under them, glanced up at the ceiling, and then over at the books on the shelves. How Líadan had ever managed to even hint enough about her condition for him to comprehend what she was almost saying, he’d never know. It had been far easier with Cáel, because all he really had to do was show him to people, and that was it. 

Alistair turned his chair around so he could better stare his brother down. “All right, I’ll start guessing since you seem to have misplaced your ability to speak. Are you going to tell us that you and Líadan are somehow going to marry anyway and just not bring the Chantry into it?”

Blessed Andraste, he’d pretty much immediately guessed exactly what they were going to do. Good thing he’d already been avoiding eye contact, or he’d be a dead man. “No.” And that was true, because while they were going to secretly bond, he wasn’t planning on _telling_ them. It did little to make him feel better about keeping it from his brothers, but it did allow him to sound believable. “It’s... you see, on Sundermount, the Veil is incredibly thin.”

“We’re aware. It’s not a shocking revelation,” said Alistair.

Fergus let out a sound of frustration. “For Maker’s sake, stop being a child. Spill it.”

Malcolm glared at him. How could he not understand that this sort of thing couldn’t be _rushed_? “I’m telling you right now.”

Fergus pushed his chair onto two legs again, and made a jerky, annoyed motion with his hand for Malcolm to continue. “Go on, then. I won’t interrupt.”

Then again, Malcolm realized, their interruptions made the time it took to get to what he really had to tell them stretch out a lot more. “The Veil is thin there, which means magic is particularly prevalent, and easily crosses over at the most unexpected times.”

“Also not news,” said Alistair. Fergus gave the King an annoyed glance. “What?” asked Alistair. “ _You_ agreed not to interrupt. I didn’t.”

Malcolm sighed and slumped in his chair again. “Riordan’s a liar.”

“You’ve lost me entirely,” said Alistair.

He tapped his feet, entirely unable to sit still, and settled for letting himself ramble in an unbroken sentence because it would undoubtedly come out that way. “About that supposed fact about Wardens not being able to have children with other Wardens and that it wasn’t anything we should have _worried_ about because those sorts of things just don’t happen, and he didn’t mention any loopholes about engaging in certain activities in places where the Veil is as thin as parchment, and, like I said, Riordan is a big, fat liar and this is going to be a total messy mess at court and everywhere, because she’s going to have a baby, and that really isn’t the sort of thing you can _hide_ , and—” Malcolm’s pressured speech was cut off when the air was forcibly squeezed out of his lungs by Alistair hauling him out of his chair and hugging him.

Over behind the desk, Fergus chuckled to himself.

“This is great!” said Alistair, thumping Malcolm on the back, which did allow Malcolm to breathe again, though bruises would be a likely concern.

“You tell her that and she’s likely to beat your face in,” he said.

Alistair drew back, perplexed. Then he seemed to recall why, exactly, she would be unhappy. “Oh, right. Dalish. Awkward. How’s she taking it?”

“Not awesomely.”

Fergus regained his composure at hearing of Líadan’s unhappiness. “Will the Dalish exile her? I mean, I presume if bonding with a human is an offense worthy of exile, it follows that having his child would assuredly be.”

Released by Alistair, Malcolm took his seat again, his legs too wobbly for him to remain standing. “And you’d be mostly right. Lanaya told her they wouldn’t, but she can’t speak for all the Dalish, and certainly can’t speak for the Mahariel. I mean, Lanaya telling her she wouldn’t exile her has helped some, but not enough for her to really be looking forward to, well, any of it.”

“What about you?” asked Alistair, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Me? If she weren’t so upset by it, I’d be thrilled. It’s something I wanted on some level, but it wasn’t really a thought I’d allowed myself to entertain considering what Riordan had told us. And I can’t really... I don’t know. It’s pretty hard to be enthusiastic when the other person involved is very much not. The pressure will just get worse, too, especially when she starts to show. We could avoid Denerim, but that would be noticed, and we’d eventually have to go back. Giving the child away is entirely out of the question. It might not even lessen the jockeying the nobility are doing with the daughters in trying to get them to marry me.” His chest tightened as he thought about how the nobility would react, and what they would do. “There stands a pretty good chance of her being treated even _worse_ at court than before. Or it could stay the same, or on an outside chance, improve. There’s really no telling.”

For an astonishingly brief moment, Malcolm wished the Fereldan court more like the Antivan court. There, with nearly all the nobility’s marriages made for political ties and production of heirs, they did not possess much love. So mistresses, called such whether they were involved with married or unmarried men of the nobility, were widely tolerated—some even celebrated and loved more than the actual wife. The illegitimate children, if there were any, borne by the well-loved mistresses were often treated no differently, and sometimes even better, than the legitimate heirs. Unlike in Ferelden, it really wasn’t a huge deal for bastards to be fully acknowledged and raised with the noble’s legitimate children.

“Anora should be informed as soon as possible,” said Alistair. “She’ll know best how to handle the social aspects. Maker, why must everything be so complicated? You’re having a child with the woman you love! It’s something you should be allowed to feel happy about, not everything but.”

“It’s never that simple,” said Fergus. “As nice as it would be if it were so.” He sighed. “Too bad we won’t be able to push for the dispensation sooner. It would be nice to have _one_ child legitimate when it’s born. Though, if you ever get the dispensation and are allowed to legally marry her, the child would be retroactively legitimized. No need for persuading the Landsmeet to pass yet another act of legitimation.”

Alistair scratched at his chin, his scruff rasping against his fingers. “Would it even matter? Their child couldn’t be in the line of succession. There’s no way the Landsmeet would knowingly allow an elf-blooded child to stand a chance of inheriting the throne. So what do they care?”

“They’d probably just like their royal family to stop having bastards instead of legitimate children.” Fergus gave them a half-smile. “Not that said bastards haven’t been useful, and assuredly worthy of the line.”

“Yep, I was almost offended right there,” said Malcolm. “And it isn’t like I meant any of this. Not Cáel and not, well, little whomever. Morrigan had been taking precautions during the Blight—I’m just assuming that with Cáel, she must have changed things as a result of preparing for her ritual—and Líadan and I had been told straight out that we couldn’t have children of our own, not with each other.”

“Unfortunately, the nobility won’t know any of those facts.” Fergus’ chuckle returned as he tried to continue. “Now they’re _really_ going to think you’re like King Maric.”

Malcolm thought his cheeks were going to burn right off his face. “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

Alistair outright laughed. “Ha! No. I like this. It’s fun.”

A knock sounded on the door, followed by Hildur popping her head in. “Am I breaking up a party?”

“Of a sort,” said Fergus.

Hildur glanced at Malcolm, then at Fergus and Alistair, and went back to Malcolm, apparently noticing his discomfort due to how alarmingly red his cheeks were. “Oh, told them, did you?”

Malcolm started to think that embarrassment really could cause death.

“You knew already?” asked Alistair. 

“When Lanaya suspected, she came to me to ask if it were possible, because Morrigan had told her otherwise,” said Hildur, plopping herself in the remaining empty seat. “I had to explain that while it’s next to impossible, it’s not entirely impossible. There’s that tiny, infinitesimal chance, especially if there’s any otherworldly machinations going on. Which, on Sundermount, there clearly are. To be fair, I haven’t known for that much longer than you. Just a couple days.”

Alistair sighed. “Still somewhat jealous.”

“Don’t be. I had to speak with Líadan about it yesterday, and if you had seen how distressed she was—and is—you wouldn’t be as happy about it as you are.”

“She seemed all right this morning,” said Fergus. 

Malcolm stretched his legs out in front of him in an attempt to keep from being so tense. “She had a talk with Wynne, and then a long talk with Lanaya. She’s still really not happy about it, but it isn’t quite the grim specter it was when she first found out.” He did wonder how long it would take her to feel at least neutral about it. Hopefully, by the time the child arrived, she would be slightly optimistic. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t hate or resent the child consciously. And if she began to feel that way unconsciously and then figured it out, the guilt would almost cripple her. One thing he did feel good about was that Cáel would grow up with a brother or sister, something he felt Alistair really missed out on, and had added a lot of depth to his own childhood. It wasn’t really an experience he wanted his child to lack. 

Fergus, noting the uncomfortable silence, cleared his throat and addressed Hildur. “Was there a reason for your visit or was it just uncanny timing?”

“Both. Lanaya’s clan will be leaving the day after tomorrow. She explained to me that she doesn’t want to be around when the Divine arrives. If they didn’t leave, she believes her presence would compel the templars to act, between her being on the same estate, as well as the templars being hypervigilant due to the presence of the Divine. I really couldn’t argue with her on that one. So we’ve scheduled a meeting for tomorrow to go over everything we need to regarding the eluvians. Someone told me Alistair and Malcolm were meeting with you, so I dropped in to let them know.”

“When’s the meeting?” asked Alistair.

“Morning meal. I figured we could use the small dining hall.”

“Sure, go ahead, it isn’t like you need ask me permission or anything,” said Fergus, sounding more amused than annoyed.

Hildur smiled at him. “You’re such a kind and gracious host.”

“We should also discuss the templars you recruited and how you’re going to wean them off the lyrium, assuming that’s what you intend to do,” said Alistair.

Malcolm frowned. “Alistair, I thought the whole ‘the Chantry has their templars addicted to lyrium’ thing was supposed to be a secret.”

“It was. Or maybe still is? I don’t know.” Alistair shrugged. “Maybe it’s like most of the Grey Warden secrets that aren’t really secrets because somehow everyone knows, but we all act like it’s still a secret anyway. Come to think of it, if it were a real secret, since the templars who marched on us had run out of lyrium, it wouldn’t have taken very long for us to be asking why every single one of them was turning into a raving loony.”

“Highever’s chantry wasn’t very secretive about providing lyrium for them, either,” said Fergus. “Just rolled right up to the gatehouse with marked cases of it on their wagon.”

“We can discuss that at the meeting tomorrow as well,” said Hildur. “I’m sure at some point I’ll have to confer with the healers the Circle sent here to pick their brains on the matter. I’ve also sent a message to the Shaperate asking for all their records on possible lyrium addiction. Unsurprisingly, the dwarves have extensive records on all sorts of things lyrium. I don’t expect an answer for at least half a week, though. At least the Wardens have a contract with Orzammar for their own supply of lyrium.”

“Okay, _that_ was a secret I didn’t know,” said Alistair. “I’m willing to bet the Chantry doesn’t know, either. They think they have exclusivity on access to lyrium.”

“They’d like to think that. And I assume the lyrium merchants in Orzammar would like them to keep thinking it. However, it’d be bad business to not supply the Grey Wardens with an item so critical to magic. We need it for our mages, especially with how taxing the Deep Roads are, both in battles and for healing. And Weisshaupt has the gold to spend. The Order’s been around for too long a time for them not to have a fairly vast fortune at their fingertips. Which is good, considering the amount of food alone it takes to feed a single garrison of Wardens.”

“But keeping the former templars on lyrium would lead to logistical and eventually tactical problems, as evidenced by the templars here being at our mercy for their lyrium needs,” said Alistair.

“Exactly.” Hildur hopped down from her chair. “We can discuss it more in-depth tomorrow. I’ve got more Wardens to have discussions with. Excuse me.” She had the door halfway open when she reversed course, grabbed Malcolm’s arm, and pulled him out of his chair. “And I need to take him with me.”

Fergus held up his hands. “By all means.”

When Malcolm shot a pleading look at Alistair, the King also made a hands-off gesture. “Don’t look for me to save you, either. You got yourself into whatever trouble you’re in with her. I’m just glad I’m not in your shoes.”

“That’s because your clown feet would be squashed in them,” Malcolm said over his shoulder. He followed Hildur mostly willingly, yet she kept the grip on his arm. Part of him wondered what would happen if he attempted to resist. Somehow, he suspected he would end up on the losing side of that fight. 

“Hey! I don’t have clown feet!” said Alistair. “No one’s ever mentioned that I have big feet.”

“No one had the heart to tell you before.” His brother’s outrage almost made up for the height thing. Almost.

“You can bicker later,” Hildur said from the other side of the doorway, still holding Malcolm’s arm. When Malcolm didn’t make a move forward, Hildur planted her feet and heaved, yanking him through the doorway. 

Well, that answered that, he noted. Never get into a fight with Hildur.

To his surprise—aside from being thrown about by a woman who wasn’t even as tall as his shoulders—Líadan stood in the corridor outside Fergus’ study. The fact that Hildur had bodily hauled him out, coupled with Líadan not just barging into a meeting with the three of them, send him into a mild state of panic. “What’s going on?”

“Not here,” said Hildur. “Servants can and most likely will stroll by anytime.”

“Why would—”

Líadan had fallen back and clamped a hand over his mouth. For one brief instant, he contemplated biting her hand to get even for a certain Deep Roads incident two years ago. Before he could decide whether or not to go through with it, Líadan snatched her hand away. “Don’t even think about trying it.”

“What? If I even knew what you’re alluding to—and I totally don’t—I’m certain I wasn’t going to actually do it. Unlike some people.”

“That was _years_ ago.”

“No. At most, two whole years. But definitely not ‘years’ in the sense that you’re using them.”

“Mmm.” She didn’t look at him, instead keeping her eyes staring straight ahead. “You can think of something else that could go missing for years in the sense that I’m using them.”

He blinked. “All right. Years ago.” Then he noticed they were heading to the small annex of guest quarters where Wynne and the other Circle mages were staying. “Why are we going to see Wynne?”

Líadan sighed. “Because you’re an idiot.”

“If you think she can solve that little problem, then you’ve got another thing coming,” said Malcolm. “She spent the whole Blight trying to fix that, and you only saw the latter half of those attempts.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Hildur said with a grumble. “We have things to discuss.”

Malcolm held in a sigh. Of course they did.


	16. Chapter 16

“When Arl Myrddin besieged us, a youth named Calenhad was sent to meet the asp, but all expected a treacherous end. Yet the boy returned, to great acclaim, and announced there would be no terms. Aldenon was taken with the ‘foolhardy honor’ the boy displayed and seemed to awaken as from a dark dream. The mage told Tenedor the Younger he would lend his aid for this battle, but after that, he would serve another. Tenedor accepted his resignation with relief more than anything.” ****

— _from The Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

Hildur knocked on Wynne’s door, and then shoved in Líadan and Malcolm as soon it was opened. As if prearranged, Wynne cast a ward of silence right after Hildur followed and closed the door behind them. 

“So,” said Hildur, motioning toward Líadan, “ _now_ you can tell me what your plan is about bonding before the Ra’asiel leave.”

Líadan looked astonished. “How did you know?”

At the same time, Malcolm said, “We weren’t—” and then stopped and stared at Líadan. “What?” Then his stare went to Hildur. “Wait, how did you know?”

She leaned against a wall and grinned at them. “I gave you two an order, didn’t I?”

“Because the two of us are so good at following orders?” asked Malcolm.

“He makes a fair point,” said Wynne.

Hildur sighed. “Okay, fine. Oghren may have let it slip that he and Fergus and Alistair were putting more than a little pressure on you, Malcolm, and that you were supposed to ask yesterday. Then Lanaya mentioned to me this morning while we were arranging the meeting for tomorrow that if you two were going to go through with bonding, it would have to be before they leave. She isn’t sure if or when the Ra’asiel will be back in Ferelden, and it will be some time before either of you can do extensive traveling.” She clapped her hands together. “So! When’s the wedding?”

“Bonding,” said Líadan, who then shook her head at herself. “I guess it’s the same idea.”

“You never mentioned bonding,” said Wynne.

Líadan gave her a rueful smile. “I was preoccupied.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Hildur, abandoning her place against the wall to find a chair. “After I left you in the garden, where you were attempting to find your right mind again, this idiot comes bumbling along and asks you to bond with him?”

It wasn’t like he’d heaped onto her difficulties on _purpose_. “Hey! I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known what else was on her mind.”

Wynne crossed her arms and gave him a level look. “You’re saying that as soon as she told you she was going to have your child, you would _not_ have proposed to her?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Not necess—”

“Malcolm.”

“Okay, you may be right. _Are_ right.” He couldn’t figure out how to communicate to them that he wouldn’t have purposefully caused Líadan that much anguish. However, Wynne was correct about what he would’ve done had she told him before he’d already asked, even if he hadn’t been actively contemplating it. He sighed and looked at Líadan. “What are you planning on? I figured I’d let you take the lead since you had your not-so-little freak out about bonding last night, lest I make you do the same again.”

“We should do it before the clan leaves,” she said. “I told Lanaya to plan for the night before they depart, pending on your agreement.”

“Night?” asked Wynne. “I don’t see why it couldn’t be held during the day, when everyone could attend. Or the evening at the very least.”

“That’s because everyone isn’t attending, or even going to know about it,” said Malcolm. “For a member of a royal household to knowingly marry a mage requires a dispensation from the Divine.”

Wynne nodded. “Ah. And she will not be so inclined as to grant you one.”

“No. Can’t say that she would.”

“We shouldn’t even need her permission, anyway,” said Líadan, sounding particularly annoyed and trending towards an irritated that made Malcolm nervous. “What kind of religious leader—Creators, what kind of _leader_ —uses a flimsy excuse to attack the people she’s supposed to be leading in faith? It makes no sense. And the more I hear about you and Alistair and Fergus and Anora having to bow and scrape and kneel and do whatever it takes to make her happy, even though she just attacked _you_ , and she’s coming here to apologize for it, the more frustrated I get. What I’ve noticed about humans is that they don’t follow the rules of their faith because they believe it—they follow the rules out of fear of what will be done to them if they don’t. How is that supposed to be comforting? How is that supposed to be an example of how to live your life? How to conduct yourself and treat others? The _elvhen_ Creators might be locked away and gone, but we never had cause to fear them or their priests. And I don’t see the need for a fear monger to bless any bonding I’d choose to make, nor would I want her to.”

Malcolm worked to keep his mouth from hanging open as he stared at her, wondering where all _that_ came from. “Has that been building up for a while?” he asked.

Her glare, which had previously been fixed on a vague point on the wall across from her, settled onto him.

 _Oops_.

“The Divine is not a fear monger, nor is the Chantry,” said Wynne.

 _Saved._ Malcolm nearly let out a sigh of relief, and then realized that having Líadan angry with Wynne, and possibly Wynne angry with Líadan, would be a very bad thing. Wynne was currently the only healer they had access to, and not knowing entirely what happened with Grey Wardens who carried children, they’d need her help. 

“No?” asked Hildur, of all people. “Perhaps not past Divines, and perhaps not the Chantry at all times, but in the past year, I’ve certainly witnessed plenty of fear mongering on their part.” She held up a hand when Wynne started to object. “However,” she said, and then turned to Líadan, “the Chantry is an integral institution on the surface, especially when it comes to human governments. Nothing runs without the Chantry, and if a ruling family takes too many steps away from Chantry law, not only is the family risked, but so is the entire country. It sucks, but everyone’s hands are tied. If you ever want your union with Malcolm to be recognized by Ferelden, you’ll have to at least pretend to play by the Chantry’s rules.”

“A bonding isn’t even in a chantry,” said Líadan as she dropped into an empty chair, but her body remained tense, holding onto her anger.

Malcolm shuffled his feet. “We’d eventually have to have a ceremony the Chantry would recognize, or the court’s scheming will never stop.”

“That isn’t the half of it,” Hildur said to Malcolm before turning her look to Líadan. “Surface nobility isn’t like dwarven nobility. Children aren’t legitimate just because they’re recognized by their same-sex noble parent like in Orzammar. If Malcolm were a commoner, or even just a minor noble, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Unfortunately, he isn’t either of those. He’s the king’s brother, which means for any children he has, the question of legitimacy becomes a very big deal.”

“Why?” asked Líadan. “Like you said, he’s the king’s brother, not the king. It isn’t his throne to worry about. And the Dalish don’t even have questions of legitimacy. You’re either born or adopted into the clan or not. Usually, it’s viewed as better that your parents are bondmates, if only for the stability, but it isn’t always necessary, or demanded.”

Hildur quietly regarded Líadan for a moment before sitting down in the chair across from her. Her face had become very serious, the most serious Malcolm had ever seen, and a pit of fear formed where his stomach had once been. “Líadan,” Hildur said, her tone not unkind, but very firm. “You need to realize that the child you carry is not Dalish.”

Líadan’s face crumpled as she struggled to keep her composure. “I _realize_ —”

“If you realize it, then you need to accept it.”

“I can’t just—”

“You have to. Your child is not and will not be Dalish. The child will be human. The child will live and grow and learn in human society. The child will—”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t teach—”

Hildur would not be deterred, it seemed. Her explanation continued relentlessly, but her tone had not changed from the soft kindness it had started with, no matter how firm and harsh the actual meaning of the words were. “ _Human_. That means belief in the Maker, not the Creators. Andrastian, not—”

“Stop.” Líadan stood, as if propelled to her feet by the strength of her reaction. “Stop. You’ve made your point.”

Malcolm wanted to stop Hildur himself, before she made Líadan run. At the same time, he wondered at how the two women could hold a conversation while never letting the other finish a sentence.

“Not sure that I have,” said Hildur, turning in her chair to keep her steady look on Líadan. “The sooner you come to terms with the fact that your child will be born into human royalty, the better. If the child isn’t made legitimate and their place in or out of the line made official, the child will be viewed by as a threat by some, a nuisance by others, and for a select, unsavory few, a tool to be used. Trust me when I say this is not something you want for your child.”

Líadan started pacing the floor of the room while eyeing the closed door, which caused Malcolm to start rising from his chair. Wynne reached out and placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. He frowned at her. She shook her head, and he swallowed his fear and frustration. If even Wynne thought this necessary, maybe it was. But from the look on Líadan’s face, he wasn’t terribly convinced. And if it continued for much longer, Wynne and Hildur’s anger be damned, he’d stop it if Líadan didn’t first.

“I can’t—” Líadan started to say, but did not stop her pacing.

Hildur interrupted her again. “The easiest way to fix the situation would be to seek a dispensation after Ferelden’s current troubles with the Chantry are over. I doubt the human nobility will pass an act of legitimation for a known elf-blooded child. So the only way the child becomes legitimate and reasonably safe is Chantry-sanctioned marriage, even if you hate the idea of submitting to them.”

The last part of Hildur’s speech brought Líadan up short, her hands curling into fists at her sides, and she squared her shoulders as she spun to face Hildur. Her eyes had gone from troubled to an angered tenacity, any vestiges of weakness or indecision having vanished. “I will _not_ submit. I am Dalish—we are keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the _Elvhenan_ , and never again shall we submit. The Grey Wardens may be my clan, but my oath has not changed.” She paused as if gathering herself. “I will not submit.”

Hildur was momentarily mollified at the force of Líadan’s anger, as if it were unexpected. Then she shrugged. “Call it conceding then, at least outwardly, if that makes you happy. They don’t need to know about your bonding with him before or that you don’t consider their ceremony to be valid for you. It’s a show.”

“Putting the word in the clothes of another will not change what it is: submitting.”

“ _Conceding._ Pretending to do so to make the Chantry stop interfering. And it isn’t like you need to do that now, not with the problems Ferelden has. While you need to accept that your child will be human and not Dalish as soon as you can, you have time to accept needing to pacify the Chantry.”

Líadan had not ceased looking offended at the very idea. “I do not require any time. I will not submit.”

Hildur sighed, and her voice softened. “Not even for the sake of your elf-blooded, _human_ child?”

Líadan resumed her pacing, running her fingers through her hair, and still casting looks at the warded door. Hildur’s question had pierced through Líadan’s determined fury, and the pain of perceived betrayal returned to her eyes. She halted to address Hildur once more. “I haven’t even... why are you doing this?”

“To protect you. You’re one of my Wardens, and it’s part of my job. If you are conflicted like this when you go to Denerim, the court jackals will eat you alive, especially when you begin to show. I’m not doing this for fun. I hate this. I think this entire situation is about as appealing as a bronto’s arse, and that you shouldn’t have to consider any of this. But hating a situation doesn’t change reality, and you cannot navigate that reality with competence until you come to terms with its existence.”

Líadan turned toward the door, but did not take a step toward it. “ _Asit tal-eb_ ,” she said. “It is to be. Sten told me about that once. Yet I cannot submit. How can they be reconciled?”

“That is something I can’t help with,” said Hildur. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

Líadan had no reply. She continued to stare at the door, refusing to look at any of them. Malcolm wondered how long it would take her to reconcile her conflicting beliefs, or if she would be able to do it at all. 

The silence made Malcolm itchy, and the tension even more so. Time to dispel it if at all possible. “You know, when I die, the first thing I’m going to do when I see Riordan is punch him in the face.”

From Líadan, Malcolm heard a short, choked laugh, and he felt a little better. If she was able to do that, the danger of her fleeing had passed. He figured she needed some more time to process what had just happened, so he turned to Hildur. “Then you’re sending us to Denerim?”

She nodded. “It would be the best place. You and Cáel will need to be close to the palace, like it or not.”

“What about the eluvians?”

“We’ll discuss that, among other things, at the meeting tomorrow. I need a bit more information from Lanaya.”

Líadan cleared her throat, having turned toward the rest of them as they’d talked. “So, is it out of the question to ask the two of you to be two of the witnesses for the bonding? I can understand if you object—”

Hildur stood and briefly touched Líadan’s arm in reassurance. “Just because I’m pushing you to face reality, doesn’t mean I’m not happy about the things you _can_ be happy about. I’d love to be there. Night after tomorrow, Dalish camp, right?”

She nodded. “When the moon reaches its zenith.”

“Never been to a bonding before. Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself.”

“Like I said, I’ll be there. Not with bells on, because that would definitely draw some attention. Now, I’m going to excuse myself and go finish telling the other Wardens about the meeting. If you feel like you need to yell at me, just let me know.” With that, Hildur bustled out the door, closing it behind her.

Líadan let out a long breath and practically collapsed into a chair before glancing over at Wynne, who’d yet to answer. 

Wynne smiled, the warmth touching her eyes. “I will be there.” After Líadan returned the smile, Wynne asked, “How are you feeling?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Bit of a loaded question, isn’t it?”

“I meant in regards to your health. Your other feelings are quite evident.”

“I’m fine.” At Wynne and Malcolm’s disbelieving looks, she relented. “I’m tired, but that’s normal, right? I’m otherwise fine.”

Wynne didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t push—Líadan had already been pushed far enough. More would only put her right back on the defensive. “Fair enough. However, if you begin to have any other symptoms, such as nausea, or especially not being able to eat or keep anything down, please come see me. With how fast the Grey Warden metabolisms are, both you and the child would be in danger of malnutrition.”

“Oisín was worried about that on the ship,” said Malcolm. “He yelled at me for not having him see you sooner. I thought his reaction was a little extreme considering it hadn’t been _that_ long, and you wouldn’t even let me ask him for help until you were practically in dire straits.”

She rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No? Need I remind you about not being able to get out of your bunk?”

“I was able; I just chose not to. Or my legs chose not to. It’s a little fuzzy.”

“Please don’t let it go that far again,” said Wynne. 

Líadan slid down in her chair and extended her legs to prop them on a small table before looking over at Wynne. “So will you be my healer through this? Because usually it’s the Keeper, but I won’t exactly have access to one, and you’re the only one I know and trust for now, yet I don’t want to assume anything.” Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant as she asked, as if she truly were worried that Wynne would say no.

“I would be happy to,” said Wynne. “No matter the circumstance, it is good to see life into this world. I know you may not believe it now, and you may not even believe it when you have your child, but there will be a day when you will see.”

“I hope so.” Whatever else Líadan might have said was interrupted by the audible growling of her stomach.

“Young lady, when’s the last time you ate?”

Líadan squinted in thought. “Let’s see...”

“If you have to think about it, then it’s been too long. Off with you. Go eat. There’s several more months to figure out everything else.”

Malcolm and Líadan found themselves hustled out of Wynne’s room. Líadan, for once not one to argue, headed straight in the direction of the pantry and kitchens. Malcolm followed, never one to argue about food. He wondered what he should say or do about what had just happened with her and Hildur, but he could practically see the bristles of Líadan’s defensiveness warding him off. Or warning, either or. It would have to wait until later. Or, depending on her response to the initial question, perhaps never. He did feel slightly better when she reached out to take his hand in hers for a portion of their walk. Yet once they returned to the more populated area of the castle, she let go, needing to retreat to her shell of defensiveness. 

When they rounded the corner to where the pantry and kitchens were, they found Alistair hanging outside the pantry door, asking—begging, really—bread from the baker. He already held a sizable hunk of cheese in one of his hands. 

“There’s plenty of bread from this morning, ser,” said the baker. She was new and Malcolm couldn’t remember her name. “Take as much as you want from that.”

“But you’re baking _new_ bread,” said Alistair. “I can smell it. Everyone can smell it and it smells absolutely delicious.”

“It’s for the evening meal, Your Majesty. Hands off. Eat the other bread. You won’t starve. The evening meal is only in another hour.”

“Stop hassling the staff,” said Líadan, pushing him out of the way. “Suck it up and eat the morning bread like the rest of us.”

Alistair grinned when he saw her, the push not bothering him in the least. Before she could step into the pantry to retrieve her own food, Alistair snatched her up in a hug that lifted her feet clear from the stone floor.

She took immediate exception. “Put me down! Don’t you realize how embarrassing it is when you do this? Let go!” When Alistair didn’t grant her request, she followed up her shouting with fists. 

Fists that had pretty much no effect whatsoever on Alistair. Instead, he started laughing. 

“Templar, magic is next if you don’t put me down right this instant.”

“I could just smite you instead.”

“What? Do you have a death wish?” asked Malcolm. 

“No, not really, as fun as it would be to see her reaction,” said Alistair, who then wisely put Líadan down. 

She fired a glare over her shoulder as she strode into the pantry. “You are a horrible man.”

He shrugged. “Eh. I’ve been called worse, even by you.” When Líadan ignored him, he turned to Malcolm. “Anora wanted to speak with the two of you as soon as possible. I was actually looking for you to tell you that, but I got sidetracked. Who can resist the smell of baking bread? Not this weak, weak man, I know that much.” He took a bite from his cheese. “I do think she wanted to speak with you before dinner, though. So... we should probably get going.”

“I’m bringing my food,” said Líadan. “Wynne’s orders.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Far be it from me to argue with that.”

As they started for wherever Alistair had last left Anora, Malcolm asked him quietly, “You already told her?” Because Malcolm really couldn’t fathom why else Anora would want to speak with them so urgently. She was not one for rushing anything unless absolutely necessary. She was all about precise planning and the proper execution of said plans. 

“Yes,” said Alistair. “And she told me that if we were to speak about it in the open, she would castrate the both of us, heirs needed or not.”

Malcolm frowned. “Why wasn’t Líadan threatened?”

“She said Líadan is far more intelligent than either one of us, and wouldn’t do something that stupid. I know because I asked the same question.”

“If you two could stop jabbering about it, that would be for the best,” Líadan said between bites. “And I’m not making any promises that I’ll want to talk about it once we get there, either.”

“Anora would be quite put out if you didn’t talk,” said Alistair.

“I’m sure she can handle it.”

Malcolm wasn’t so sure, and from the expression on his brother’s face, it didn’t seem Alistair was, either. As much friends as the two women were, Anora did not tend to deal well when information was being withheld from her. Líadan refusing to speak about the child would be seen as doing just that. Maybe they’d all get lucky and Anora would tell them her plan without asking too many prying questions. It’s what Malcolm assumed Anora wanted to do—explain to them the best way to handle the impending child, not to mention Cáel, the babe Morrigan had given them. Maker’s breath, the Landsmeet would be furious. Or happy. Or perhaps furiously happy.

“Found them,” Alistair said after they entered the library. 

Anora looked up from the parchment she’d been writing on. “Did you get lost? Were they lost? It took you over an hour.”

“There was fresh bread.”

“What, did you bake it? Is that what took you so long?”

“Why, Anora,” said Malcolm, “I believe that was a joke.”

She gave him the faintest of smiles, which, for her, was the equivalent of a full-on grin. “Perhaps. Now,” she said, shuffling the papers and getting right to business, “I’d originally wanted to meet not-urgently to speak about what the process for legitimizing Cáel will be. Then Alistair informed me of your... news.” She paused to give them each a heavy look. “I trust that you have kept this in confidence thus far?”

“I was perfectly fine with keeping it in such confidence that I myself didn’t know,” said Líadan. “Lanaya and Hildur had other ideas.” She sighed as she found a chair and settled into it, maintaining her composure. “Mostly in confidence. The Dalish know, but they wouldn’t tell anyone outside the clan, ever. Hildur, Wynne, Alistair, Fergus, and you. That’s all.”

Anora nodded. “Good. This is good. It means we can still choose exactly how to go forth.” She idly tapped her fingers on the topmost book, a giveaway that her mind was churning over the details of a plan she’d concocted. Anora, Malcolm knew, was incredibly good at navigating the complexities of court. “People will find out, that much is inevitable. I don’t think it should be announced, not with it being—”

“A bastard?” asked Alistair.

She sighed and looked at him with exasperation. “Illegitimate. Must you be so crass?”

“What? I’m a bastard myself, so I’m allowed to say it. Personally, I’m rather fond of bastards.” Anora’s look on Alistair became briefly cross, and his hands went up. “Not that I’ve had or am having any of my own! I was just referring to my brother. Also my nephew. That’s all.”

“I don’t think we technically count as bastards anymore,” said Malcolm.

“No, you don’t,” said Anora. “When the Landsmeet made Alistair the King, and you a prince, it was automatically a legitimation according to Fereldan civil law. The Chantry had to ratify the Landsmeet’s legitimation according to Chantry law once they were notified. However, in known history, the Chantry has never failed to ratify a government’s act of legitimation. That lack of precedent is what will fall in Cáel’s favor. As long as the Landsmeet passes an act of legitimation for him, the Chantry will be compelled to uphold it.”

Malcolm frowned. “Will there be trouble with the Landsmeet?”

“Some. I believe they may be tiring of Theirin heirs being—”

Alistair leapt in. “Bastards?”

Líadan stretched out her arm and poked him in the ribs with a lightning-laced finger. He jumped from his chair and yelped, then rubbed his side ostentatiously as he glared at her.

“I know you can’t stop being a bastard,” she said before he could speak, “but you can stop being an ass.”

“I—okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I was just trying to lighten the mood. Everything is so tense and serious with all of you. I just keep thinking I’ll be getting a new niece or nephew and it’s exciting, but for everyone else, it’s like there’s a grim shadow darkening it all.”

“It’s called reality, Alistair,” said Líadan. 

“Yes, a grim, dark shadow exactly like the one you just sent my way. Well done with the illustration.” Alistair sighed and returned to his chair. “I’m not insensitive to how... sensitive this matter is. I just—babies should be _happy_ things.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Not sure if you noticed when Cáel was traveling with us, but babies cry a _lot_. And they aren’t happy cries, either.”

“You know what I mean.”

Anora cleared her throat. “Your tangent is getting us nowhere. Back to the Landsmeet. They will probably request that any other Theirin heirs be born legitimately for the foreseeable future, which is not an unreasonable request considering that Cáel will make the third legitimated Theirin in a row. For a royal house, it’s not a good precedent to have, nor is it good for a government’s stability. However, since Alistair and I have yet to have an heir of our own, Cáel is all there is at the moment, and the Landsmeet still craves a stable monarchy. You don’t get that unless the succession is secured for at least one generation. I do not foresee much of a problem for Cáel in regards to the Landsmeet. However, with this new development, things are far more complicated.”

Alistair turned to Malcolm. “You know, it would have been nice if the two of you had taken care of getting married before we ran into trouble with the Chantry.”

“Right, because we totally saw that march on Ferelden coming.” Malcolm hoped Alistair’s comment wouldn’t provoke Líadan into the same tizzy she’d been in earlier.

“It certainly would have made things less complicated,” said Anora, “but what’s done is done and we’ll work with what we have. It would be best to keep things close for a couple more months at least. The nobility will need time to get used to Cáel’s sudden presence. Once you begin to show, Líadan, the rumors will of course proceed from there. We should allow them to propagate naturally in lieu of announcing anything. We won’t deny it if asked, but there won’t be any volunteering of information, either.” She sighed, and her eyes become troubled as she looked over at Líadan. “I wish this could be easier on you. For you.”

Líadan fleetingly met Anora’s gaze, and then looked toward the window, away from everyone. “As do I.” Then she took a deep breath and turned back to them. “The plan is fine. I’m glad we have someone on our side who knows the court so well. Hildur thinks they’ll eat me alive.”

“I won’t allow it,” said Alistair.

“If only it were so straightforward,” Líadan said as she stood and gave Alistair a pat on the shoulder. “But the plan Anora came up with is far better than nothing. I’ll take it. However, I believe it’s time for the evening meal, is it not?”

“Wardens and their eating habits,” Anora said with a rueful shake of her head. “One has to wonder if Grey Wardens operate around two things: darkspawn and food.”

“You pretty much got it exactly right,” said Malcolm. “Well, we don’t think about them both at the same time. Usually. Depends on how long a battle lasts. It’s amazing the moments when the stomach can decide to growl. When fighting or cleaning up after fighting darkspawn with non-Wardens around? _Awkward_.”

They all took the evening meal in the main hall, sitting at the high table with Fergus. Líadan kept an even keel over dinner, returning to her normal self. 

It wasn’t until they were in their room and the door closed that Líadan’s eyes took on that lost look that had become so familiar. She didn’t say anything, instead standing in front of the window, arms crossed and hands gripping her elbows, yet she didn’t appear to be seeing anything outside her own thoughts.

Malcolm realized that the calm she’d been projecting after her confrontation with Hildur had been an act. Her remarkable composure while they spoke with Alistair and Anora about their future—an act. He could easily see now that Líadan was one light nudge away from falling apart.

He wanted to do something to stop it from happening, to help, but he had no idea what. He was also well aware that he was part of the cause, especially since he couldn’t seem to entirely stifle the happiness that sometimes struck him when he realized he would be having a child with the woman he loved—and he would get to be there for everything. But those moments of happiness were very short, and very rare. It really couldn’t be true happiness unless the person sharing the experience with him felt the same, and it was quite clear that Líadan didn’t.

He really need to figure out what to do, but he was rubbish at fixing things. He was, however, good at talking. “So, if I told you that everything will be all right in the end, would you believe me?”

She didn’t look at him, but she did answer. “No, not really.”

Malcolm scratched at his chin. “Would it make you feel better?”

“I don’t know.”

He moved to stand behind her. Once there, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her head settled under his chin as she relaxed the tiniest bit.

“Everything will work out in the end,” he said.

“Do you believe that?”

“I think it will, maybe. Sometime, at some point. Hopefully before the _end_ -end. It would suck to have everything turn out totally okay right before we go on our Calling. That’d be our luck, though, wouldn’t it? ‘Oh! Everything’s grand! Time to pack up and leave this existence and not get to enjoy everything being awesome. Toodles!’ So, I’m shooting for sometime before that. I don’t know. I just can’t let myself believe that everything will be bad. Even if we can’t see anything good in it right now, we could at least find something not-bad or not-too-terribly-awful, right?”

Her head shifted, and he moved his to find her looking up at him, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you.”

“You might want to clarify what you’re thanking me for, mostly so I can repeat said action should I need to at a later time.”

The smile threatened to fully emerge. “For being you.”

“Oh, well, that won’t be too hard to continue doing.” He kissed her forehead. “Do you feel any better? Or should I keep talking?”

“Surprisingly, I do feel better. As for the talking, maybe you should quit while you’re ahead. I don’t have the energy to retaliate should you dig yourself into a hole.”

“Probably.”

He wondered which of them was more surprised when he remained quiet.


	17. Chapter 17

“To anyone who doubts the wickedness of blood magic, I say: With your own hands, strike down the corpses of your own brothers who have fallen in battle to a maleficar, then we may discuss morality.” ****

— _Knight-Commander Benedictus, in a letter to the Divine_ , 5:46 Exalted

**Nicanor**

**9:32 Dragon**

**Just Before the Battle of Highever**

****He knew they were completely, utterly screwed when Archon Vespasian gave the order for his flotilla to rejoin the main fleet. Valoel, Flemeth, _whoever_ she was, had ordered them to wait for her. For any sane person, the rule went thusly: when a god ordered you to do something, you did it. Faith, and all that. Plus the whole ‘they could smote you in the blink of an eye’ thing was also a motivating factor. Flemeth, Nicanor knew from the interactions they’d had over the past months, did not suffer fools. Those who disobeyed her, she considered fools, and dealt with them accordingly. 

Nicanor did not want to be dealt with, and yet, he had no choice. He was Vespasian’s general; it wasn’t like he could mutiny. Flemeth certainly wouldn’t like that, either. So he watched and waited for their certain doom.

Nature did not disappoint.

A storm slammed into the flotilla as it found the fleet, rain lashing so hard it stung on his bare skin, lightning forking across the sky and darting down at least twice to take out the mainmast of a Tevinter ship. There were screams and fire and the smell of smoke before the lightning faded and the night and the sea together swallowed them. Nicanor counted them the lucky ones; they wouldn’t face Flemeth’s wrath as she descended upon them from the clouds of the storm. She looked no less intimidating when she shifted into her human form as she landed lightly on the deck. Perhaps it was her potential to harm, or perhaps it was merely because she was a clever, powerful, and very dangerous woman.

Things it seemed Archon Vespasian had forgotten, because he chose to engage Flemeth in an argument. Then Flemeth wasn’t letting Vespasian finish any sentences, and then Flemeth gave up and finished Vespasian, along with his ship, and many of the other ships with it. She set almost everything on fire, swooping in between the ships of the fleet, breathing great gouts of flame.

The fire forced the crew on Nicanor’s ship—and Nicanor himself—to abandon it. The lifeboats were quickly loosed, and he couldn’t get to one fast enough. The flames nipping at his heels, he jumped overboard. As he swam to a floating piece of wreckage and then clung to it, he thought he heard a dragon’s wings directly over him. He glanced up and saw exactly that, somehow looking the dragon in the eye.

Flemeth almost seemed to nod at him before spiraling upward to disappear into the clouds.

So he lived.

In the early morning, he washed up on a stretch of beach, along with countless bodies, and one other living person. They watched each other warily as they each struggled from the water, staggering up above the high tide line, denoted by the drying seaweed, before collapsing. Then they continued eyeing each other until the woman, while squeezing water from her blue kerchief, rolled her eyes and asked him, “Who are you?”

Her bluntness took him by surprise. “Me?”

“I don’t see anyone else here who currently possesses the ability to speak.”

“Nicanor.” The woman seemed harmless enough. It couldn’t hurt to chat. She wasn’t, after all, a magister, and certainly not an archon.

“Isabela.” She began to tie the kerchief back over her dark hair that still gleamed with water. “Tevinter, are you?”

“The emblem on my clothing gave it away, did it? Yes.”

“No need to be rude. I’ve got sand in my nethers, and here I’ve managed to be civil.”

He reflexively glanced downward toward her short skirt before he could catch himself. She smirked at him, telling him without a word that she’d noticed, and he wasn’t sure if he should be afraid of that glint in her amber eyes or not. “I’ve had a rough couple of days,” he said, willing himself not to blush because he was a grown man. “All right, a rough many months. I’ve lost track.” When he’d told his wife he was leaving with Vespasian’s fleet—Vespasian’s Folly, they were calling it even before they left—she’d informed him that if they did not return victorious, she would not be there, nor would the children. And if he decided to search for them, she would tell her magister father, and Nicanor would die in a horrifically painful, terrible way.

He wasn’t entirely certain he was going to miss his wife, but he was going to miss the children greatly. 

The woman made a sound of agreement. “I imagine we all have. The Blight certainly didn’t make things easier for anyone.” She opened the cloth sack she’d dragged ashore with her and pulled out a sheathed dagger that she began securing to her leg. “You a magister, Nicanor?”

“No.” He couldn’t help the scowl from showing. 

She raised an eyebrow. “There are people in Tevinter who aren’t either mage or slave?”

Her comment drew a reluctant chuckle from him. “We do exist, but we’re in the minority.”

“I’ll say.” Then she produced two more daggers and a belt, and began securing them around her waist. “So, if you aren’t a magister, what are you?”

“I was a soldier.” Nicanor turned to look across the deceptively placid sea. “However, my employer is dead.”

“Well, I’m a pirate captain. Once I get a new ship, you’re welcome to join my crew. I’m sure I could find a use or three for you.”

His head snapped back around to look her in the eye to confirm if what he _thought_ he heard in her tone was really what he heard.

It was.

To his surprise, he actually considered the possibility. Both possibilities. Had to be a far sight better than serving another archon or magister, and it wasn’t like he had anything left to him in Tevinter. He glanced at Isabela again, doing his best to ignore the lascivious smile on her lips, and then movement at the far side of the beach, barely around a rock formation, caught his eye. “Maferath’s broken vows. Qunari.”

She turned to see and the smile disappeared. “That’s never good.” Her gaze returned to Nicanor, jaw set in determination, even though the words she spoke were lighthearted. “And they don’t like Tevinters.”

He gave her an appraising look. “I’ve heard they’re fond of the Rivaini.”

“And I’m usually a fan of them in all their bare-chested glory, but I highly doubt these ones would play nice. They look rather cross, and I’d rather not be in their path if they become violent. We should be on our way.”

“We?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You have someone else to travel with?”

“No.”

She grinned again. “Oh, taciturn. I like that. This will be fun. We’ll go to Kirkwall!”

Kirkwall. Being a city that formerly belonged to the empire, it would at least be somewhat familiar. After all that’d happened, he needed some familiarity. He gave the pirate a nod, and then followed her when she set off in the opposite direction from the qunari. They had only closed half the distance to the city when Nicanor felt the familiar snap of magic in the air. Blood magic, if he was not mistaken. Vespasian and his fellow magisters had used it often enough. His status as the Archon’s general kept his own blood from being used as a power source, but he’d always known that if it came down to a magister running out of power for his spells, he’d be considered a valid sacrifice to keep the magister alive. Not that Nicanor agreed. Once, a long time ago, he would have given his life for Vespasian. Not so anymore, even if the Archon had still been alive.

“I feel magic,” he said to Isabela. Considering how many daggers the woman had on her person, he figured she must know how to use them.

She gave him another look of consideration. “Do you? I suppose we could find—”

“Not—” He scowled in exasperation and flung his hand toward the source. “Mage magic. Blood magic, to be more specific.”

The news made her frown. “And there isn’t another way around. Balls.”

“We’ll have to fight them. If there are witnesses to blood magic, generally said witnesses are disposed of.”

“All right. I guess this will have to do to scratch my itch.” Isabela hefted her cloth sack. “You any good with daggers? The swords were too long for me to take. Pity. I had some really good swords.”

“Blades are blades. Sharp and pointy will do the trick either way.”

She tossed him a pair from her magical never-ending sack of weapons. “I knew there was a reason to like you.” Then she led the way as they broke around the corner to take the mage by surprise.

Nicanor was almost brought up short at realizing the mage was a magister, judging by his robes and his adeptness with magic—wait, no, the belt around his waist marked him a high-ranked apprentice. The hunters with him were certainly Tevinter. And the elf they were battling with, either seeking to subdue or kill, was one Nicanor had seen before. 

Fenris, Magister Danarius’ pet. The experiment he’d performed on his slave had been so horrific that even Vespasian had raised an eyebrow. He’d let the magister continue without repercussions, however, because the knowledge gained from such a thing would be invaluable. And if it worked? They’d have new, even more effective warriors to throw against the qunari The lyrium brands glowed on the elf’s skin as he fought, giving him the ability to be everywhere at once, and to literally phase his hand into his enemy’s body.

Nicanor hoped he never became this elf’s enemy. To that end, he focused his attention on the apprentice magister. He wasn’t Danarius, but he was close enough at the moment. Nicanor had more than a little frustration to take out on the magisters and their lackeys. He’d lost everything because of them, Tevinter had lost so much because of them, and he wanted to rid Thedas of every one that he could, starting here. Using a trick he’d learned from one of the templars who’d served with him, he stripped the apprentice of his power, leaving him defenseless. When the apprentice reeled instead of finding a new source of blood right away, Nicanor understood why this man had yet to become a magister. 

He jumped forward and buried both of his borrowed daggers into the apprentice’s chest; now dead before he could gain the rank of magister, he’d forever remain an apprentice. When Nicanor turned to assist with the hunters, he found that Isabela and Fenris had dispatched the rest. The relief that flooded through him was unexpected, but his arms ached and lungs burned. Too much swimming overnight, and not enough rest in between. They’d been lucky the mage had only been an apprentice and not a full magister.

“And we have won the day,” Fenris said as he surveyed the bodies at their feet. Then he nodded at Isabela. “Well done.” To Nicanor, however, there was no nod or compliment. “You are Tevinter.”

“Yet not a magister.”

Fenris’ eyes flicked down to the sigil on Nicanor’s ripped tabard. “You served Vespasian.”

“Vespasian is dead.”

“Then you did not serve Vespasian well.” He paused, and then asked, “Could you have saved him?”

It was Nicanor’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “From the wrath of a god? No. Even if he could have been saved, I don’t think I would have. My patience had long since run out with the Archon.”

The elf’s green eyes began taking measure of Nicanor instead of accusing. “You speak as if you were close to him in some way.”

Nicanor snorted. “I was his general, Fenris.”

“You know me.”

“Everyone knew of you. You were a novel experiment for the magisters, and aside from the fact that you’ve escaped their clutches, the experiment performed on you was a wild success. You are a formidable warrior.”

Fenris’ hands tightened on the grip of the sword he’d yet to sheathe. “You would turn me in?”

“What? No. I want your help.”

“For what?” asked Isabela. “To get to Kirkwall?”

For hunting down every magister they could find. But Nicanor knew he needed to get situated first. Going off unprepared would lead to him dying very quickly, and certainly not enough magisters meeting their deaths. “Kirkwall, for now. Other things later. I have plans.”

“It’s as good a place as any,” said Fenris.

“You have plans now?” asked Isabela.

Nicanor nodded. “Just thought of them.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, those are the best ones.” Then she sheathed her daggers with a flourish before setting off, once again, towards Kirkwall. “We’ll go to the Hanged Man, first. It’s a decent enough tavern.”

“A tavern?” asked Nicanor. Surely there were better options.

“It’s either there or a brothel,” said Isabela. “Take your pick. I just want a bath. I could use a bath.” She looked over her shoulder at the two men following her. “So could the two of you. With me, of course. Those are the best baths.”

Nicanor could see out of the corner of his eye that Fenris was considering the possibility as much as he was. “As long as there’s a drink involved,” Nicanor said after a moment.

Isabela’s answering laugh was delightful. “My treat. I managed to rescue some coin from my ship, as well.”

“It’s in that magic bag of yours, I take it?”

“Oh, it’s more magical than you know, sweet thing,” said Isabela. 

Kirkwall turned out to be far less dreary than Nicanor had assumed it would be. At times, it was even delightful. He rested and recuperated, made some coin with Fenris and Isabela on the side for weeks as he got himself ready and organized to return to Tevinter. When the time came, he asked Fenris to go with him to help him change Tevinter, help him rid Tevinter of its magisters. 

The elf turned him down. “Make no mistake,” said Fenris, “I have every wish to rid Tevinter of its plague of mages. Yet I must deal with Danarius first before I can do anything else. Once he is gone, I am your man.”

It would do, Nicanor decided, and then departed Kirkwall, bound for Tevinter.

**Meghan**

**9:32 Dragon**

**Near Present**

Hawke and the others noticed Meghan right after they’d exited the large cavern and entered the warrens beyond. “We have company, Hawke,” said the other woman in the group. Meghan noticed that the woman—Rivaini pirate, judging from her assortment of jewelry both shiny and functional of which the Rivaini pirates were so fond—seemed to have misplaced her trousers somewhere along the way. Lack of trousers was certainly not common among the Rivaini, either pirate or merchant, who had visited Starkhaven.

Hawke didn’t break her stride, but did turn to look at Meghan. “I thought I told the lot of you to wait in the cavern.”

“I’m not going with them,” said Meghan, her anger from before the skirmish returning. “Those mages, they tricked me. I’ll not stay with them a second longer.”

“Tricked you?”

“Didn’t tell me they were blood mages. Didn’t tell me the templars would think me one of them.”

“So you aren’t a blood mage?” asked Carver.

“I’m not a _mage_ ,” said Meghan, not bothering to hide her recently developed disdain. “I’m not one of them.”

“I’m a mage myself, actually,” said Hawke, sounding almost casual. That explained the lightning around her sword during the battle, Meghan realized. Not runic enchantments, like she’d assumed. When Meghan said nothing, Hawke went on. “But considering what you just went through, I’m willing to overlook your prejudice for now. All right, come with us. I’ll hide you just inside the entrance while Varric convinces Ser Thrask that the mages are gone.”

“It’s Ser Karras you should worry about convincing,” said Meghan, almost as an afterthought. Her anger finally had begun to fade, and guilt was hastily replacing it, especially after Hawke’s admonishment. 

Hawke nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When they reached the part of the cavern right before the exit, Hawke told Meghan to remain inside with Carver and the Rivaini woman, Isabela. Time went by slowly, and Meghan was convinced the templars would come into the cavern any second. They could hear Hawke and Varric speaking with Thrask, but the words themselves were muffled. When they heard the thump of heavy boots and another voice, Carver started swearing from where he paced at the far end of the cavern. 

“Varric will talk his way out of it,” Isabela said to him. “He can bullshit a bone from a mabari.”

“Not sure why he’d want to do that,” said Carver. “Those dogs slobber everywhere.”

If Isabela had a reply to Carver’s surly remark, it was waylaid by Hawke thrusting her head inside the cavern’s entrance. “All clear,” she said, and then asked Isabela to run to tell the other mages, because she was the fastest of them. Meghan, having no inclination to be around when the mages made their way out, exited the cavern.

The sunlight tore at her eyes, and she stumbled in the soft sand at being half-blinded. She closed her eyes, and then opened them intermittently to see if they’d gotten used to the light. No matter how much she squinted, the tears kept welling up. 

“Oh, you didn’t go far,” came Hawke’s voice. “Figured you’d run off.”

“No. Too hungry and tired and I can’t see a thing.” Meghan wiped at her eyes, and then resigned herself to rapid blinking and tearing, otherwise she’d never adjust to the light. “I just didn’t want to see them.” She waved her hand in the vague direction of the cavern. “The mages. They did not-nice things.”

“Blood mages are like that. Maleficarum and all.” Hawke sighed at her joke falling flat. “Listen, why don’t you just walk around that bend there to wait. I’ll send the mages off in the other direction, and then we’ll go back to Kirkwall. Well, that is, if you want to come with us. Not sure who you are or where you want to go. For all I know, you’d like to take a long walk on the Wounded Coast’s pitiful excuse for a beach.”

Despite her situation, Meghan found herself choking out a laugh. “With you. I despise long walks on beaches.” Now able to fully open her eyes, Meghan extended a hand to Hawke. “Meghan.” She did not need to reveal that she was a Vael. From what she could tell of recent events, knowledge of her as a Vael could easily lead to her death.

Hawke firmly shook the offered hand. “Marian Hawke. For some reason, almost everyone insists on calling me by my last name. Gets confusing when my brother or sister are around. We left Bethany in Kirkwall for today, but Carver’s with me, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. All right, you go hide. I can hear the mages approaching.” Before Meghan ducked around the corner, Hawke rooted around in a pouch, and then tossed the other woman a paper-wrapped package of trail bread. “All I have, but I figure you must be starving enough for it to taste good.”

On their way into Kirkwall, Meghan was quiet, but Hawke and her friends kept up a lively chatter, mostly led by Varric and Isabela. It wasn’t until they were in the city and walking into Lowtown that Hawke asked Meghan what she intended on doing. “Since,” said Hawke, “you aren’t a mage and don’t have to worry about the templars chasing you down as an apostate.”

“I don’t know. My family was killed, and I’m not sure if the men who killed them are still looking for me. I’ll need to get out of the Free Marches, I know that much. But that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if he understood, and perhaps even knew who she was. It was possible, she knew, if a person was connected enough. Judging from the storyteller Varric seemed to be, she could easily see him knowing about her family and what its members tended to look like. That would be the sort of detail he’d have paid attention to, for future retellings of stories he heard.

“I’m sorry about your family.” Hawke’s sentiment sounded genuine, causing Meghan to wonder what family Hawke had lost. “Kirkwall is probably a bad place for you to stay. Murderers abound around here.” She glanced over at Isabela. “You’ve traveled a lot. What country would be the easiest to get lost in?”

Isabela looked Meghan up and down, and from the glint in her eyes, she was obviously making an appraisal or two. “Ferelden,” she said after a moment. “She’d fit in there, and they’re fairly disorganized because of the Blight, and then whatever happened with the Chantry marching on them in their not-quite-exalted-march.”

“Ferelden?” asked Meghan. “It’s a—”

“Backwater, I know,” said Isabela. “That’s the point. Nevarra, the Anderfels, and Orlais are out of the question. I doubt you’d want to go to Tevinter, and you’d draw too much attention in Rivain. So you’re left with Ferelden. It’s not so bad, I promise. I always enjoy my time there. Denerim is a fine port. I’ve heard the city’s even been rebuilt and is better than ever.”

Meghan sighed. It wasn’t like she had much other choice. “I suppose I’ve no other option.”

“No, not really,” said Varric. “We’ll find you passage tomorrow.”

It was then that Meghan realized she hadn’t her coinpurse. She blushed at having to admit she didn’t have a copper to her name. “I haven’t the funds to pay for a berth,” she said quietly.

Hawke glanced over at Carver, who then rolled his eyes before nodding. Then Hawke turned to Meghan. “It’s on me. I’m sure between Varric and Isabela we can get a good deal. But it won’t be tomorrow, then. We’ll need some time to come up with the coin. And you can feel free to help, if you’re able.”

Meghan nodded. “I would appreciate that.”

“There will be bargains,” said Isabela. “No one wants to go _back_ to Ferelden. Travel’s in the other direction, so any captain worth her salt will be grateful for any passenger for that leg of their trip.”

“And tonight’s drinks are on me,” said Varric. “After today, I can’t stand seeing anyone going without a drink.”

Meghan had never really been a heavy drinker, but she felt compelled to do so that evening, if only to forget the past week. Except that Meghan hadn’t taken into account Varric’s natural curiosity for stories, and Meghan, anyone could tell, had quite the story just begging to be told. It took only three ales for Meghan to start to relax, her limbs feeling heavy and warm, and her body almost comfortable in the wooden chair at a table in the Hanged Man. Even the low hum of the crowd inside felt comforting, in a way, an insulating blanket of noise that protected her from her own dark thoughts. She kept her grandfather’s bow with her, not wanting to leave it in the room Varric had kindly arranged for her. It was too big to keep in her lap, so she’d strung one of the bowstrings on it and slung it over the back of her chair. Occasionally, she reached back to touch it to assure herself it was still there.

The waitress put another tankard in front of her, along with a plate of food. While the food wouldn’t have looked terribly appealing to her former self, her current self, having only had either nothing or hardtack for the past few days, it looked to be the best meal ever. Forgetting about the limited use of her dominant hand, she tried using it to pick up her eating knife and met with little success. At first she managed to grab it, but she could barely feel her fingertips, could barely close her fingers properly, and she dropped it. After dropping it a second time, she gave up on that hand, placed it in her lap, and used her left hand. Her movements were clumsy and especially frustrating due to how hungry she was, but they were better than what she could do with the hand on her injured arm.

“What’s with the hand?” asked Varric as soon as Meghan had cleared her plate.

Meghan looked up. “What? Oh, um, nothing.” She held up her left hand and wriggled her fingers. “See? It’s fine.”

“Lady, I’m a professional bullshitter. You’ll not be able to out-bullshit me. Ask Rivaini, she’s tried many times.” He motioned toward her lap. “That hand. The one you glared at and then hid.”

“It doesn’t work properly.”

“Clearly.” He chuckled softly and sat back in his chair. “All right, all right, you don’t want to tell me the story.”

She sighed and brought her right hand back onto the table, wishing she could drum her fingers, and discovering it was another ability the hand had lost. “It isn’t a pretty story.”

“Pretty stories are boring. They have no substance. Try me.” He signaled to the waitress for another round. “And it looks like you’ll need another drink to tell this one.”

She supposed she could tell part of it. The injury, at least, could be told without specifics. “It...” Meghan held up her arm and pointed at the scar. “I tried to parry a sword blow with this arm. It worked. I mean, it stopped the sword from killing me, but it wasn’t so good for my arm.” She did her best to ignore the memories racing to be remembered, to be relived again, the swing of the mercenary’s sword, the lucky swing of her own pilfered sword, the catch of the mercenary’s sword on the bone—she opened her eyes to remind herself that she had escaped. 

“That bad, was it?” asked Varric, who didn’t wait for a confirmation from Meghan. “Recent, I gather, since you keep trying to use your hand?”

“Yes. One of the mages you saw with the group earlier, she tried to fix it. But she said the damage was too extensive for my hand to return to normal.”

Varric pointed behind Meghan, at her bow. “Then why do you keep the bow you’ve been toting around? I know you’re hurting for coin, and that’s a damn fine weapon. Even Bianca says so. Selling it could give you a bit of freedom.”

Meghan’s hand went to the bow right away, as if to keep it from being taken. “I could never sell it. It was my grandfather’s.”

“And there’s never enough coin in all of Thedas for the value of sentimentality,” said Varric. “You an archer, though? It’ll be tough, rehabilitating and regaining your skill. But it’ll be equally as tough if you try to switch arms, because then you’ll have to use your other eye to aim.”

“You know a lot about archery for a crossbowman.” She slowly placed her right hand back in her lap, feeling secure enough about her bow for the time being. The waitress appeared and wordlessly placed another tankard in front of Meghan.

“I’ve known a fine archer or two in my time,” Varric said with a grin that Meghan found hard to read.

Isabela reappeared from wherever she’d wandered off to, draping her arms over Varric’s shoulders and running her fingers through the dwarf’s chest hair. “I believe that Chantry brother Hawke was drooling over the other day is an archer,” she said. “Took me a good few minutes to notice the bow he had. If I’d known the Kirkwall chantry hid such fine specimens, I’d have gone to services more often.”

Reminded far too much of the one brother of hers who might still be alive, Meghan took a long draught of her ale, and did her best to ignore Isabela and Varric as they continued to chat about the Chantry brother. The ale disappeared faster than she thought it would, and the room felt even cozier than before. “Brother Vael, I think that was his name,” Meghan heard Hawke say. When had Hawke joined the conversation? Last Meghan remembered, Hawke had left the Hanged Man to speak with her mother.

“I still say we should take a look at what he had posted on the Chanter’s Board,” said Isabela. “A favor for him could work out as a favor for us, if you know what I mean.”

“He’s a sworn Chantry brother, Isabela. Are there no limits for you?” asked Hawke.

“I like to call them challenges. Brother Vael is delectable. And a challenge. We should help him.”

Having heard it a second time, Meghan could no longer believe she’d misheard. “Vael? Did you say his name is Vael?”

“His last name,” said Varric. “First name is Sebastian, from what I’ve heard in the chantry.” At Hawke’s surprised look, he said, “What? Where do you think I go to hide from the Merchant’s Guild? They’d never go in the chantry, so I do.”

“He’s my brother,” said Meghan.

Varric’s head snapped around. “I think you’ve had enough to drink for tonight, if you just said what I think you said. Hawke, you should help her to her room. Not sure if she’ll be up to much walking.”

Meghan tried to object, but words had suddenly become very hard to form in her mind, much less say out loud. So she allowed Hawke to draw her to her feet, and then leaned heavily against the other woman as she stumbled to her room, with Hawke holding the bow in her free hand. Hawke hadn’t even left before Meghan was asleep.

In the morning, Varric brought a potion to cure her hangover, and apologized for pressing too hard for her story. Meghan really had no memory of much of anything beyond her third ale and a low buzz of alarm sounded in her mind. “What did I tell you?”

“Enough for me to nearly put you in danger,” said Varric. “You shouldn’t be talking openly about who you are or what happened to you while you’re in the Free Marches.”

Meghan’s hand went to her mouth. “I told you... I told you who I am?”

“Not exactly. You said enough for me to figure it out. The others aren’t as well informed on current events I am, so I don’t think they quite put everything together. And now that we’ve discovered you’re a chatty drunk, you should lay off the alcohol in case something like this ever happens again, and someone who isn’t so safe overhears.”

“You’re safe?” Meghan raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Varric held up his hands. “As a kitten. I’m just a storyteller. Besides, I can’t even tell your story until you get a happy ending. That requires you living and continuing to evade whoever is trying to kill you. You need to be cautious, even once you get to Ferelden. If you can, since you’re royalty, you should apply for asylum, either with the Chantry, or maybe petition the King himself.”

“Perhaps,” said Meghan. She wasn’t too sure of the Chantry, not after what’d happened with Grand Cleric Francesca. But maybe the Fereldan Chantry would be different. As for appealing to King Alistair, she wasn’t sure, either. Being new to the throne, he was largely an unknown entity. Meghan would’ve known what to expect with King Cailan, but the same didn’t go for King Alistair. From rumors she’d heard, Queen Anora did not control the throne with Alistair the same as she had done with Cailan. Without knowing the power dynamic, Meghan was unsure about how to approach them successfully. Her best luck might still rest with the Chantry, however much her confidence in it had eroded. “I’ll have to see how it goes.”

“You’ll have to hide instead of helping Hawke. I’m sure you can make it up to her later, when you’re in a position to do so. Hawke will understand. She’s good like that.”

Meghan was reluctant to agree to hiding, yet she knew Varric was right. There was no point in her helping Hawke earn coin for her passage if it just got her captured or killed before she could leave. And if she managed to live, and managed to regain her family’s titles and fortunes, she would be in a far better position to repay Hawke. “All right.”

Varric nodded, and it was done.

Weeks later, she sailed with the tide, heading south, toward Ferelden, the possibility of safety, and advice from Isabela to visit The Pearl when she reached Denerim.


	18. Chapter 18

“By the end of the siege of the Western Hill, Arl Tenedor was no more. It was Calenhad who defeated Myrddin in single combat, and he became Teyrn Calenhad. Aldenon was named his chief advisor.” ****

— _from The Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Líadan**

****While Líadan’s outlook hadn’t much improved by the next day, she was able to maintain an outward facade of calm. She had responsibilities, one of which was being a Grey Warden. The meeting Hildur was conducting over breakfast this morning was quite important, considering it would determine the assignments and duties for probably the next few years. The Fereldan Grey Wardens had a lot of recovering to do, and were possibly in worse condition than they’d been after the Blight. What really worried Líadan was that they had no real mages. No one who could heal, no one who could provide good crowd control during Deep Roads expeditions, and not having along those sorts of mages was just begging for trouble of the deadly kind.

Líadan knew that as a mage, and by herself, her magic was quite ineffective for those useful kinds of things. During the Blight, working with Wynne and Morrigan, she’d been able to contribute more, either their spells bolstering hers, or... actually, that was pretty much it. Their spells bolstered hers. It had been the same with Velanna, Fiona, and Anders. Even the inadvertent spell combination she’d done with the Architect to collapse the Deep Roads tunnel had been the result of a strong mage’s magic boosting hers. But when she was the only mage, it was pretty much like not having a mage at all, and that made her nervous for when they returned to proper Wardening. Though, she did wonder how much proper Wardening she’d be allowed to do. Now annoyed at the pending restriction on her activities, she cursed out loud. 

Malcolm looked at her in askance. “How can you be swearing when we’re on our way to breakfast?”

“I was thinking.”

“Well, that can certainly cause significant amounts of swearing if done in large quantities.” He nudged Gunnar with his knee, making Gunnar walk into his leg, a game mabari and master often played while walking the halls of Highever. “Do I want to know what thought made you swear?” Revas, unable to get her mistress to play the same game, ran up to bump into Gunnar, and the three of them continued playing as they walked.

“It would make you swear, too.” Because she decided that if she couldn’t travel, he wouldn’t be traveling, either. Especially not on fun, voluntary, darkspawn-killing missions.

“Then I’m content to remain clueless.”

She rolled her eyes and felt no compulsion to tell him her thoughts. The truth would smack him upside the head soon enough. “You are such a Theirin sometimes.”

“If it’s not all the time, there’s hope for me yet.”

She didn’t bother replying because they’d reached the small dining hall that Hildur had requested—or requisitioned, knowing her. Inside, they found most of the Grey Wardens already seated and diving into the meal set out for them, uncaring that their commander or the King had yet to appear. Then again, the Wardens never stood on ceremony when it came to the King. He was just Alistair to them, a Warden like any other. 

On seeing the food rapidly disappearing and not knowing when more would be brought in, Líadan started filling her own plate. By the time Hildur and Alistair strolled in with Lanaya, hers was half-empty, while the Wardens who’d started eating before her had already cleaned their own.

Alistair looked sorrowfully at the scant remains of breakfast. “I knew I should’ve gotten here early.”

“They’re bringing more,” said Hildur. “I’ve been in the Wardens long enough to know better than to assume the food made available at the outset would be enough. Besides, they’ll listen better if they aren’t stuffing their faces.”

“All right,” Alistair said as he sat in the chair next to the head of the table. “I’m trusting you on this. If I go hungry, the blame’s on you.”

Malcolm, seated across from Alistair, took a half-eaten piece of bread from Líadan’s plate and offered it to his brother. “Here, I saved this for you.”

Before Alistair could react, Líadan reached out and snatched back the bread. “That’s mine. Hands off.”

“It wasn’t like he was actually going to eat it,” said Malcolm.

“I was honestly contemplating it,” said Alistair, who inched his hand toward the bread Líadan had just deposited safely on her plate.

Líadan pointed at Alistair’s hand. “Don’t even. The use of magic on your person is not out of the question.” While she wasn’t thrilled with Alistair or Malcolm even _pretending_ to steal her food, the bickering was comfortable and reassuring, being a remnant of how things were before they had become horribly complicated.

Hildur cleared her throat. “Wardens. We have a guest among us. Do you even know what decorum is?”

“Awfully big word you’re using there,” said Oghren. “What’s with getting all fancy?”

“Just for you, Oghren.” Hildur deposited a leather-bound journal on the table in front of the chair at the head. She took note of the only other empty seat being next to Alistair, and motioned toward it. “Keeper, it seems you get to sit next to the King.”

“He bites,” said Malcolm. “Fair warning.”

Hildur sighed as she hopped into her chair. “Don’t make me second guess my decision about assigning you to run the Denerim compound, Malcolm.”

Malcolm, who’d been exchanging mock glares with Alistair, snapped his head around to face Hildur. “What? You said sending us to Denerim. There was nothing mentioned about me being in charge of anything.”

“I seem to recall telling you we’d discuss more at the meeting. This is the meeting, and now we’re discussing it.” Hildur’s tone was mild, with only a bare hint of scolding.

Malcolm sat back, his apparent initial outrage fading. “Okay, you have a point. But I don’t understand how you expect me to be able to run an outpost in Denerim when I’ll be out finding and destroying the eluvians.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow at him, wondering at how he could be so oblivious. Then again, he had said not long ago he preferred to remain clueless. And here he was, proving it. Hopefully he’d do something intelligent later so she wouldn’t think she was bonding with an idiot. She knew he meant well, that he assumed the Dalish wouldn’t want to destroy the eluvians, their ancient history, themselves. However, she’d come to realize that Lanaya was a very different sort from the typical Keeper. Lanaya not only believed in the history of the elves, but she also believed in the future, something many Dalish failed to see beyond the vague concept of hope.

“Keeper Lanaya has the answer to that question,” said Hildur, indicating for Lanaya to speak.

The Keeper inclined her head toward Hildur before addressing the Wardens around the table. “During the winter of study we spent at the White Spire, we found a second cache of artifacts sealed away a short distance from the eluvian located there. The cache contained records of those who remained behind to defend the White Spire from the Tevinters after Arlathan had appeared to fall. Also in the records were accounts of items looted or stolen from Arlathan itself and greater _Elvhenan_ —most of the stolen artifacts being the eluvians. Some were destroyed by the captured _elvhen_ slaves, who were of course executed by their Tevinter masters for their effort. As for the rest, their last known locations are also recorded. I believe my clan and I will be able to locate and destroy the remaining intact eluvians to ensure Morrigan cannot be followed.”

“You mean aside from Nathaniel?” asked Sigrun. Then she gave Malcolm a mock scowl. “I can’t believe you lost him.”

Malcolm crossed his arms and grumbled. “It isn’t like I pushed him through. He just kind of did that thing he does, where he appears out of thin air, and then he strolled right through the eluvian, practically on Morrigan’s heels. How was I supposed to see that coming in order to stop him?”

“To be fair,” said Hildur, “Nathaniel was exceptionally good at stealth.”

“You mean aside from when he was caught in the Vigil by the Orlesian Wardens?” asked Alistair. “By the Wardens so not good at Wardening that they were captured by darkspawn?”

“Fergus said it took four of them to subdue him,” said Malcolm.

Alistair nodded. “Which means he’d already gotten himself caught.”

Malcolm scowled and sat back in his chair. “Whatever.” Then he mumbled, barely loud enough for even Líadan to hear, “I don’t care how many times they say it, _I_ didn’t lose him.”

She gave him a pat on the hand. It might have appeared reassuring to others, but she knew he’d recognize it as patronizing—which it was.

He did realize it, and rewarded her with a glare.

Which made her grin at him, because he shouldn’t be taking the accusations of losing Nathaniel so seriously. Partly because they all knew he couldn’t be held responsible for Nathaniel’s actions. Only Nathaniel could be held accountable for them, and Líadan was certain Morrigan had taken him to task as soon as she’d discovered his presence. The other reason was that the more Malcolm defended himself against the baseless accusations, the more amusing it became for the other Wardens to continue accusing him. Really, considering he grew up with an older brother, he should’ve been more aware of what to do to bring the teasing to a stop.

While she hadn’t grown up with a sibling, the other children in the clan around her age had been much like them. And then there’d been Merrill, the only other child born the same year as her, and they’d always been at mostly friendly odds. Líadan wondered what it would be like for Cáel, since he would have a younger brother or sister, and—yes, still not ready to address those sorts of thoughts. She blinked and turned her attention to the meeting, ignoring Malcolm’s curious look in her direction.

“Nathaniel notwithstanding,” said Hildur, “the real danger is from Flemeth following Morrigan. Since Lanaya believes she and her clan can take care of the remaining eluvians, I won’t need to send out any of the Fereldan Wardens to do so, which is good because we’re so few.”

Malcolm sat up straight in his chair. As Líadan had suspected, Malcolm had still assumed he would go, and most likely that Líadan would accompany him, along with a few other Wardens. “You aren’t sending any of us?”

“No. With Lanaya having the matter well in hand, there’s no reason to short Ferelden on Wardens, not when we’re so thin on the ground. As it is, we’re going to have trouble maintaining both the Denerim compound and Vigil’s Keep, but we need Denerim open to promote recruiting. I think your influence, as well as Alistair’s, might draw in recruits from the city. Even still, I’ll need to go to Kinloch Hold very, very soon, because we’re dangerously low on mages, particularly of the healing kind. I think once we’ve had the Joining for the templar recruits, I’ll need to go, even though I’d rather stick around for longer right after. But we’ve really no choice. Wynne said she needs to go to Denerim and can’t stay at the Vigil, which I understand. Two of the Circle mages who were sent to help with the battle wounded volunteered, and then received permission from First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir to help at the Vigil until we get mages of our own.”

“I thought Líadan was a mage,” said Sigrun.

Líadan sighed. “Sigrun, I can’t even heal the smallest of cuts, much less damage a darkspawn could do. We need real mages.” She also knew she was the reason why Wynne was continuing on to Denerim so soon, and not staying behind at the Vigil until they got more Wardens. Even the records Hildur had requested from Weisshaupt would be sent to Denerim for Wynne to study so that she could better know what to expect from a Warden carrying child. And, yes, wrong direction for her thoughts. Time to think of something else. Puppies, kittens, and halla, those were far better topics.

Malcolm also refused to accept the change of assignments, so that helped with the distraction as well. His fingers fiddled with his eating knife, as if he were trying to put off losing his temper. Which, knowing him and the topic, wasn’t out of the question. While he’d changed and matured from how impulsive and impetuous he’d been during the Blight, the subject of Morrigan seemed to revert his behavior back to that impossibly young man at least half the time it came up. “I promised Morrigan I would see to that,” he said.

“We can see to it just as well,” said Lanaya. “You need not worry that the task will go undone. We have no wish to see Morrigan or Cianán tracked down and possibly harmed by Flemeth.”

Malcolm absently tapped the wooden handle of the knife on the table next to his empty plate, his brow furrowing slightly at the same time. Then he exhaled a slow breath, which Líadan knew was what he did before he admitted something he probably didn’t want to say out loud, but was left with no choice. “You don’t understand. I promised her once that I would always protect her. Even with how things have changed, the promise remains. I won’t break my word.”

Líadan wondered when that promise had been given, and how exactly Morrigan had responded to it. Morrigan had never been one to accept help readily, even from Malcolm. Or especially from Malcolm.

“I believe watching over Cáel is within the bounds of your promise, as well as being sure the eluvians are attended to, even if not personally by you,” Lanaya said, her voice very much taking the tone of a well-meaning Keeper. A tone which also somehow managed to convey when they thought the person they were speaking with was being a bit shortsighted. Líadan had heard that tone a lot growing up, and nearly as much as an adult. “And we will notify you when we have found and destroyed all of the eluvians remaining on Thedas.”

Malcolm practically shoved himself back in his chair in frustration, one of his legs underneath the table straightening out, and his other tapping on the floor. “That isn’t—”

“It works out perfectly well,” said Hildur. “And even if we’d ended up needing to send Fereldan Wardens to help, which we don’t need do, you wouldn’t be among them.”

He looked up from the frustrated contemplation of his eating knife. “Why not?”

Hildur gave him a frank look that communicated just how much of an idiot she thought he was being. Then she said, very slowly, “You have an infant son for whom you are now responsible, and you have another child on the way. Do you think it would be anywhere near wise to embark on that sort of mission at this time?”

Malcolm stared at the Warden Commander in shock, his mouth partially open. Líadan wanted to hide under the table, because she thought they’d agreed to keep their news under wraps for a few more months, and she really would’ve liked time to prepare since that had apparently not been the case. Then she realized Hildur hadn’t been privy to that little meeting, and secrets were rarely kept between Wardens, since they all had to keep so many secrets from non-Wardens. It seemed, in retrospect, she should have expected the news to be broken at their meeting this morning.

Hildur, on her part, hadn’t stopped talking, practically beating Malcolm into submission with words he couldn’t interrupt. “In the very least, you would have to leave your son behind, and Líadan’s ability to go would be questionable.”

“And there’s no telling how long it would take,” said Alistair. “Do you really want to miss with Cáel what Maric missed with us?”

Líadan narrowed her eyes at Alistair, letting him know that if he continued with those kinds of thoughts, if he mentioned Malcolm not wanting to miss with Líadan what he’d missed with Morrigan carrying his child, she would do something very not nice to the King. Alistair wisely left his questions to the one already posed.

“Of course I don’t,” said Malcolm. 

“Then stop being stupid,” said Alistair. “It doesn’t hurt to delegate.”

A rumble of realization came from Oghren. “Wait! Wait a sodding second.” Eyes squinting in thought, he looked at Malcolm, to Líadan, and then to Hildur. “Are you telling us he knocked up the elf, despite the odds?”

“Let that slip, did I?” asked Hildur.

Oghren roared with laughter. “Good on you, son,” he said to Malcolm. “You’ve got a surprisingly potent pair of stones!”

“Did you really just say that?” asked Alistair, sounding as aghast at the observation as Líadan felt.

“What?” Oghren blinked at him innocently. “How’s it hurt saying what everyone else is thinking?”

“I’ll have you know it was magic,” said Malcolm, who seemed to be readying for a lengthier explanation, but wasn’t allowed to continue by a certain red-bearded dwarf.

Oghren elbowed Sigrun in the ribs. “I’ll bet it was.”

“Not that kind!” Malcolm’s cheeks, which had already reddened quite a bit, flushed even more. “First time was Morrigan’s folly, something to do with preparation for her ritual, I think. Second time was weird goings-on at Sundermount. Hardly anything to do with—” He stopped short. “You know what? I shouldn’t even be discussing this.”

“Ha! Haven’t gotten you to blush like that since the Blight!” He inclined his head toward Hildur. “Nice job, Aeducan.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Hildur pursed her lips for a moment. “All right, possibly a little on purpose. The rest of the Wardens needed to know, anyway. However, it does go without saying—which is why I’m saying it to _you_ lot—that information doesn’t go beyond the Wardens. And even when Líadan starts to show and you get questions, you give them no other additional details. This is going to be difficult enough to handle without Grey Wardens being a source of information for the remarkably vicious rumor mill among what passes for human nobility. Is that understood?”

A chorus of assent sounded in the room, which didn’t surprise Líadan. For all the arguing and teasing and fighting they did with each other, the Wardens were not unlike a clan. They supported one another through whatever difficulties they might face. 

She did still want to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment, though.

“I’ll be sending Sigrun and Oghren to the Denerim compound, as well,” Hildur said after the Wardens quieted once more. “The others will remain with me at Vigil’s Keep. We’ll all be staying here at Highever until the Divine concludes her visit here and travels to Denerim. Then those who are assigned to the compound there will continue on, while the rest of us will branch off to the Vigil. We’ve Joinings to do for the recruits, and then I’ll be sending some of them on to Denerim afterward. Well, provided enough of them live.”

Líadan glanced over at Lanaya to confirm that the deadliness of the Joining came as no surprise to her since she was a Keeper. And she was right. Lanaya took it in stride, not even blinking on hearing it. Líadan barely kept a scowl from her face. _Keepers_.

“How long will we be in Denerim?” asked Malcolm. While he didn’t say it directly, everyone knew his question was really about how long it would be before he’d be allowed to help with the eluvians.

“A few years at least,” said Hildur. “Lanaya’s clan can handle it, Malcolm. Take a break from traveling. You haven’t really stopped since the Blight. So stay put for a while, see what it’s like to be a Warden when there isn’t a Blight or a Thaw on.”

“Maker knows you’ve earned it,” said Alistair, who then turned to Hildur. “Have you spoken with the Circle mages about the templars and the lyrium?”

She nodded. “Yes. They’ve come up with a plan on stepping down the amounts of lyrium instead of just stopping and hoping for the best. Using that method, they think the harder part will be getting the templars to believe they can still use their skills without the bolstering of lyrium. And the longer they’ve been a templar, the harder it will be to get their minds to believe it.”

“Thierry may have a rough time of it, then,” said Alistair.

Hildur smiled. “If it comes to that, I’ll send him to you. You’re the most experienced Warden with templar training that we have.” She motioned toward Malcolm. “You even managed to train him somehow, so you must be a good teacher.”

Alistair grinned, and then broke into a chuckle. “I had help. Morrigan had to set him on fire before he believed he could actually call a smite.”

“Never underestimate the motivational power of fire,” said Malcolm.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hildur said as she scribbled something in the journal in front of her.

Líadan leaned in close to Malcolm’s ear so her whispered question wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them. “Morrigan set you on fire a second time? Why did you not tell me this?”

“Because you’d have made fun of me. Like you’re about to right now.”

“Not anymore. Ruins the fun when you’re expecting it.”

He beamed at her as she slouched in her chair and grumbled.

“I have a question, Keeper,” said Sten.

“Go ahead,” said Lanaya.

Sten slightly inclined his head toward her in recognition. “When we arrived at the White Spire, we found it destroyed by an eruption, along with most of Arlathan Forest. How did you and your clan escape such an event?”

“The halla warned us,” Lanaya. “And then the halla brought us to safety. Without them, more of us would have perished. As it was, the only casualties were those of my clan still on the White Spire, attempting to move the eluvian down the mountain. We were very fortunate. Were it not for the halla, our clan would no longer exist.”

“That’s what we’d thought when we saw the devastation,” said Malcolm.

Líadan sat up straight, somewhat annoyed that he’d misremembered. “No, _you_ thought Morrigan and the Ra’asiel had been killed. I did not.”

Lanaya smiled. “Morrigan was far from death that day, as well. After the halla had stopped, informing us it was safe for us to make camp and rest, Morrigan gave birth to Cianán and Cáel that very night.”

“Perhaps it was a sign,” said Sten. “Like when a kossith is born without horns. It means he or she will have a special purpose.”

“Morrigan certainly seemed to think that of the Old God child,” said Alistair. “And that was her entire purpose with all she’d done. I still don’t see how it will help her defeat Flemeth once and for all, but she seemed fairly convinced it would work eventually.”

Líadan remembered how determined Morrigan had been, how sure of her purpose. She’d amassed quite a bit of knowledge of _Elvhenan_ , her mind understanding it all nearly as well as a Keeper. She wasn’t sure if it had been Morrigan’s brilliance, her magic, her drive, or a combination of all three, but she had managed a feat not done for Ages: made an eluvian work properly. And now that the Dalish held that knowledge, of course they had to go destroy the rest of them instead of continuing the work. Líadan knew it was for the best, but something in her grieved for the knowledge that would be sacrificed. And if one looked closely into Lanaya’s eyes, the same grief could be found there. 

Then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Malcolm at the White Spire while they’d been on watch. And how Oisín’s appearance had saved Malcolm from providing an answer. While she wouldn’t press him for an answer now, she surely would once the meeting was over.

Malcolm shifted in his seat, and then turned to give her an inquisitive look, apparently having felt her gaze on him. “What?” he asked in a near whisper.

She gave him a slight shake of the head, her lips pressed together. _Later_.

He got the message, confused as he might have been. With a shrug, and a more than slightly wary glance at her, he returned his attention to the meeting. “What day was this?” he asked Lanaya. 

“Wintersend,” she said. 

Malcolm slowly nodded, but said nothing more on the matter. But Líadan remembered—somewhat clearly, because Sigrun had convinced her to have more ale than she’d ever consumed before—that Malcolm had thought he’d felt something through the ring, something about how Morrigan felt. Regret and sorrow, he’d told her the next day. Morrigan had thought of him, and then immediately followed with those two emotions. Then he’d told Líadan what Morrigan had said to him, after he’d refused her: “ _Should you live past the morrow, I trust it will only be with regret.”_ He’d found it amusing, in a dark way, that she apparently felt the same. 

Líadan hadn’t known what to feel.

It had been a difficult winter for her, and yet an enjoyable one as well. Difficult with about half the humans at court, who insisted on keeping the rumors going, who insisted on half-veiled insults and whispers of what she was. Enjoyable in terms of discovering her new family in the Wardens, and in the Theirins, Malcolm and Alistair and eventually even Anora. Líadan and the teyrna—who would only become Queen again at the end of that winter—had trained their mabari pups together, which had bonded them in a uniquely Fereldan way. Anora had heard of the rumors, had heard about some of the insults thrown Líadan’s way, and had done her best to put a stop to them. Yet they had all kept going, circling around like vultures until the spring, when Líadan was glad to put the human city far behind them. 

With this new development, she didn’t look forward to spending more time, practically an endless amount of time, in the city. She wouldn’t have looked forward to it in the first place, and now it would be even worse. Yet there was nothing she could truly do to avoid it; it was the way of the human noble world. A world which Malcolm was a part of, whether either of them liked it or not. Cáel needed to be raised in that world, especially should Alistair and Anora not have an heir of their own, and she knew the child she would have in winter would need to be raised the same. Much as Hildur had told her, yet she had refused to accept it, even though she believed it. Yes, she really needed to stop letting her thoughts wander. 

When she returned the majority of her attention to the meeting, she’d found it’d been wrapped up, with Wardens rising from their chairs and striding out the door, and Lanaya already gone.

Alistair had stood, and was glaring at Hildur. “You lied! No more food was to be had.”

She didn’t bother hiding the slight roll of her eyes at Alistair’s dramatics. “I’m sure you can find your way to the kitchens, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, ‘Your Majesty’ now, is it? I see how it is. I’ll have to go begging at the kitchens, hoping they’ll take pity on me. Behavior unbecoming a king, I’ll have you know.”

“Tell you what, since I missed the morning meal as well, I’ll do the begging for you.”

“Deal.”

Líadan and Malcolm briefly followed them, but split off at the next intersection. Malcolm walked alongside her, occasionally tossing her a perplexed look in her direction.

“So where’d you go at the end there?” he asked after they’d turned the corner.

“I was thinking.”

“Again? You know, normally, I’d warn people not to engage in that sort of thing too often, given how dangerous it can be.” He shrugged. “But, that’s with me, and you’re far more clever, so I suppose you’re safe.”

She gave him a small smile to let him know she was somewhat amused, and not angry for his comments, but didn’t reply beyond that. Her thoughts really hadn’t abandoned her, much as she wanted to abandon them. 

One of her hands extended toward the wall next to her, fingers trailing along the nearly smooth surface of the dressed and polished stones used for the interior of the castle. The lack of roughness reminded her of the feel of the statues of the Creators. More than once, she’d been with the hunters assigned to position the statues around the camp, under the supervision of the Keeper or her First. In her youth, the rare experience she had with stone walls had been in Tevinter ruins nearly covered by overgrowth from the ancient forests that hid them. All the stones there had been rough, cracked, and pitted by Fereldan winters. Only the statues of the Creators remained smooth, carefully tended to by the craftsmen. Not until after she’d become a Warden had she truly understood what real walls were. The kind of walls that restricted you, kept you from the sun and the forest and the fields, very unlike the Dalish experience. 

These walls, this had been the childhood Malcolm had experienced. Granted, the teyrnir’s lands were vast, and he’d had plenty of opportunities to run around and experience that freedom, yet the return was always to a home behind the walls. Her only walls had been the aravel, which really hadn’t been much at all. Free and not constricting, no straight walls or tall, carefully constructed buildings like those that formed human cities. Walls that her child would grow up within and be accustomed to. Dismay filled her at the realization.

She wanted to be outside. 

Needed to be outside.

At least in Highever, the nature that had surrounded her in childhood wasn’t terribly far way. It would be much harder to find in Denerim. The past winter, in how frigid it had been, had made her stay in Denerim bearable. But it was summer now, and they would be living there soon. Summer into autumn, her favorite part of the year in the forest, and then to winter again, repeating the cycle each year as it had always been. Finding vast expanses of nature, with only ruins being reminders of civilization, would be difficult. She needed to be outside while she could, before it was over. 

Before everything was over.


	19. Chapter 19

“As Calenhad grew into a man, one great contentious issue separated him from Aldenon: Calenhad’s faith. As biddable as Calenhad was on some topics, never would he back down from matters of honor or Andraste. What Aldenon believed, only Aldenon knew, but he most certainly did not believe in the Maker. The friends’ arguments grew only hotter as they years passed.” ****

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Líadan**

“I’m going for a walk,” Líadan said to Malcolm, and then made a sharp turn, heading for the doors. When she didn’t hear Malcolm’s footsteps behind her, she stopped and looked back. 

He was staring after her, brow furrowed, as if unsure about what to do.

She cleared her throat.

Malcolm blinked and shook himself from his reverie.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming with me or not?”

He hurried to catch up, yet kept oddly quiet. She accepted the silence, though it was strange, coming from him. Maybe he’d caught onto her contemplative mood and had decided to refrain from disturbing her. 

Comforted by his presence, she let her thoughts tumble back to the ones that frightened her—what, exactly, lay ahead. How difficult it would be, if she would be able to entirely accept it, or if she would struggle like this for as long as she lived. Suddenly, it seemed like other fears would be far easier to conquer, and soon enough, she found she’d walked up to the battlements, high above the castle and the grounds, perched on top of the very walls that bothered her.

She took a breath and stepped close to the parapet, nearly against it. 

“I thought you were afraid of heights,” said Malcolm, who had moved to stand beside her, showing none of the fear she felt.

A rueful smile touched her lips. “Since I have fears to overcome, I figured I’d start with something not as difficult.”

“Is it working?”

She couldn’t even bring her hand to touch the parapet, her fingers threatening to shake if she unclenched him. “No, not really. Creators, do these walls really need to be this high?”

“Well, you know. Dragons. Siege engines. Ogres. In other words, yes, they do need to be this high, but you aren’t required to be on them. I’ll remind you that you’re the one who walked up here. I just followed you.” He grinned. “I like the view. You can see the Waking Sea from here, the harbor down in the city, and if you look to the west on really clear days, you can see across to the Frostbacks.” His smile became warmer as he directed it at her. “And if you’re up here, the view’s even better.”

She laughed as she rolled her eyes. “That was bad, even for you.”

“What? A guy’s not allowed to tell the truth?”

“You sounded like you were trying to—”

“Get into your pants?”

She bumped her hip into him. “Like you wouldn’t do that?”

“Mm. Fair point. However, wasn’t my intention when I said it. Not that I’d complain if that _happened_ , but it wasn’t a conscious goal. I was just trying to make you feel better and forget how high we’re up since you look like you’re ready to shake out of your skin whenever you look out there.” He put his arm around her shoulders, as if to steady her. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from those nasty, treacherous heights and their sneaky ways.”

She laughed again, but stopped abruptly when his comment reminded her of what he’d said earlier. “When... when did you promise Morrigan you’d always protect her?”

His blue eyes widened in surprise as he looked down at her. “You’re still afraid of Morrigan? Well, not Morrigan exactly—though she is worthy of fear when she’s pissed, but she really likes you, so you’re safe—but afraid of her being some sort of threat to what you have with me? Because if you’re afraid of that, I guess I can understand to a degree, but it really isn’t something that’s going to happen.”

“No, not afraid of that. I just wondered. I hadn’t realized you’d told her something like that, and was surprised she even allowed it.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. Not sure if she quite ‘allowed’ it so much as didn’t bother trying to argue over it. It was near the end of the Blight, I think maybe the night before the Landsmeet.” He snapped his fingers as he latched onto the memory again. “Yes! Right before Alistair stormed into my room and yelled at me about Fiona.”

“I remember that fight. Heard the whole thing.” At his look of alarm, she said, “Don’t worry. I did run around to check to make sure no elven servants were around to hear. There weren’t.”

“So that’s how you picked up about Fiona at Weisshaupt. You never let on before that you knew.”

“The subject hadn’t really come up. So, Morrigan didn’t take your declaration well? I mean, I gather you made it a declaration, since that’s kind of your thing.”

He shuffled his feet, looking more than a bit sheepish. “It was. And no, she didn’t. Pretty much sent her into a panic. She was all ‘you have no idea what sort of promise you’re making!’ and ‘there’s much to be done.’ Which, to be fair, was quite true. I just didn’t know, like she’d said. I do think the promise I made is still valid, though. The reasonable part of me understands that Lanaya and her clan are perfectly able to deal with the eluvians, yet another part of me insists that I should be seeing it through myself, you know?”

“I do.”

“But Keeper Lanaya did make a good point. Watching over Cáel is part of that protection. If Flemeth were to somehow capture him to try to use him to get to Morrigan—it stands to reason that protecting him really _is_ protecting Morrigan.”

Líadan nodded, knowing there wasn’t anything to add to Malcolm’s realization; it had all been said. She looked out over the edge of the parapet, taking in the forest that crept close to the castle’s defense walls, accepting how high they really were. Her heart tried to leap into her throat and she did her best to force it down, calling on the courage of Elgar’nan. Which, now that she remembered, someone insisted Malcolm possessed. “So,” she said, keeping her gaze forward, “you never told me. What’s this Cammen said about you having the courage of Elgar’nan?”

“I can’t believe you still remember that. Mind like a steel trap, you’ve got.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m avoiding the _answer_. Not the question. You can ask the question all you like and I’ll still listen.”

She crossed her arms. 

He sighed. “All right, fine.” Then cool air coming off the Waking Sea ran over her shoulders, left cold when Malcolm moved his arm to fidget beside her. “It was a conversation I had with Cammen when we visited the Mahariel.”

“Really? I never would have guessed.” She immediately felt Malcolm’s exasperated glare, and didn’t need to turn to confirm it. “Okay, I’ll be quiet while you take forever to come around to the answer.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, Cammen and I had a chat. I believe you were yelling at Gheyna at the time, after having already yelled at Cammen. Anyway, Cammen was staring after you, looking a bit like a Warden recruit does after their first battle with darkspawn—wide eyed and astonished that they lived through the battle, and looking to see if more of the beasts were going to attack them. Because, you? You’re scary when you’re on a tear. Just saying.”

“And yet you haven’t come around to an answer.”

“ _Getting_ to it. So Cammen was looking over at you like that, and he says to me that any man who tries to bond with you would need the courage of Elgar’nan. So there you go.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, “Do you think Elgar’nan was afraid of spiders? I mean, if I’m supposed to have his kind of courage, and yet I’m a big, huge ninny when it comes to spiders of any size, you have to wonder.”

She shook her head in a slow, exaggerated movement. “Only you.” It fell quiet again, and she studied the forest more closely, appraising. The leaves were in the full, deep green of summer, but the edges had begun curling from want of water. The grasses in the meadow between the treeline and the castle had already mostly turned golden instead of lush and green. She frowned. Ferelden was supposed to be muddy, and there was a serious lack of mud. “It hasn’t rained in a while, has it?”

If he was surprised at her change in subjects, his voice didn’t show it. “Doesn’t appear so. It gets like that this time of year. I suspect, any day now, there’ll be afternoon storms rolling off the ocean every day. Why do you ask? Feeling like reliving old memories?”

She cracked a smile. “I think we were lucky enough to escape without injury once. I’m not one to tempt fate, even if you are.” Granted, it had been _fun_ , but also very dangerous, and with more than a hint of stupidity. 

He sighed. “Your loss.” Then he shifted, moving to stand behind her. His arms wrapped around her upper body, and he lowered his head so it was level with hers. “When are you going to tell me what you’re really thinking about instead of dancing around the subject? As someone who is exceptionally good at said dance, you aren’t fooling me. Which fear is it that’s really bothering you? Or is it all of them again?”

Líadan leaned backward against him. “Doesn’t any of this scare you? You don’t seem scared in the least.”

“Much as I’d like to insist I’m not, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. Though I think my own fears are pretty much negligible compared to yours. My fears mostly revolve around being responsible for a second tiny person and worrying about how it will all affect you, including how you’ll be treated in Denerim. It isn’t like I could go around punching everyone who says bad things. Admittedly, it would be nice, but also not very civilized, much as I’d like to protect you from it.”

She began to straighten to her full height, driven by indignity. “I don’t need—”

“Someone protecting you? I know. You’re perfectly capable of protecting yourself. I’ve been victim of it enough times to know quite well. However, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to keep harm from coming to you. And I’m pretty sure you feel the same way about me, as long as I haven’t annoyed you too much that day.” He sighed. “Look, with what happens in Denerim, I feel partly responsible whenever you’re given a hard time, because those are humans who say and do those things to you. And I’m human, as you well know, so I feel guilty, and I want to put a stop to it, even though I can’t.”

Líadan allowed her body to relax again. As long as he didn’t see her as some delicate flower who needed others to watch over her, even if she carried his child, she could—she let out a long breath. It just kept bouncing up into her mind, not leaving her alone in her thoughts. Why couldn’t she have just an hour of a single day where the realization didn’t appear unbidden in her mind?

Malcolm’s arms tightened briefly around her. She felt him shift, his cheek now against the crown of her head as he looked down. “It’ll work out,” he said.

“How can you say that? How can you be so sure?” It wasn’t an accusation—she truly wanted to know, because she wanted to feel like _he_ did. She wanted to feel the certainty that it would turn out okay. 

“Maybe if I say it enough times, we’ll both believe it?”

Too flippant an answer for her. She spun to face him. “You see good things in this,” she said, poking his chest with her finger for emphasis before placing her palm flat against it. “I know you do, even though you don’t talk about it because you think it would either make me feel worse or that it would be disrespectful of my feelings on the matter. But I... I want to feel something other than the dread I’ve been feeling. Tell me what you see.”

“What I see?”

She scowled. “Don’t play ignorant. You know what I mean. There’s something you see in our future that helps you feel better about this. I want to see the same thing.”

Malcolm looked away for a moment, down the long line of the path along the battlements, before returning to meet her gaze. “You’re sure?”

 _Not really, but anything has to be better than this._ “Yes.”

The dubiousness in his eyes told her he wasn’t entirely convinced, but was willing to go along with it. He took his hands in hers and fidgeted with her fingers like he probably wanted to do with his own. “I see...” He squinted, as if actually studying something he saw. “I see a daughter, one who looks more like you, or at least somewhat like you. I know it’s doubtful, given the penchant for Theirins looking remarkably like Theirins, but a guy can dream. I’d even be grateful for her to have your eyes or your hair. Something distinctly _you_ instead of all Theirin like Cáel is. She’d be as willful and plucky as little Saraid, even though thinking that is asking for trouble.” He shrugged, his eyes coming out of the squint to look at her. “I remember what you said about your childhood, and your memories of all the time you spent with your father. And I see... I really want you to have that with a daughter of your own.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s a pretty happy dream, in case you’re wondering.”

“That _is_ a nice dream.” It was certainly one she wanted to have, to experience. But she couldn’t bring herself to hope for it, not with the darkness of her fears swirling around her.

His arms came around her body and brought her close, pressing her face gently against his chest. “It doesn’t have to stay a dream, you know.”

“Wishing things doesn’t make them so,” she said, partially muffled by his chest before she turned her face outward. “Even as much as we wish it could.”

“I’ll just hold onto it for the both of us, all right?”

She nodded, finding it hard to speak, and then decided she’d had enough of reconciling her fears for a day—it was either that or cry. “Nuala said she’d be here around midday,” she said, stepping away from Malcolm, putting some space between herself and some incredibly powerful emotions that threatened to steal her ability to breathe.

Having been around her long enough, and having had paid attention during that time even if he hadn’t let on, he understood. “Did she? Are Panowen and Ariane ready to give her Cáel?”

“I suspect they’re ready enough.” Líadan started down the steps that would bring them back to normal heights. “Especially with the clan moving on in two days.”

“True.”

When they returned to the main floor, they found Nuala waiting for them outside the main hall, a small bag in hand, and being chatted up by Alistair. She seemed comfortable enough as the King of Ferelden spoke with her like an equal, continuing to give every sign that she would be a good fit. Once she was settled in, they would have to go get Cáel. Part of Líadan saddened to think Cáel’s time with the Dalish whittled down to an hour or two. Perhaps they could reconnect with the Ra’asiel someday, after the eluvians were all destroyed, so that Cáel could continue to benefit from their influence. To experience what the first three months of his life had been, to be reminded that these were the people who had provided his birth mother and his twin brother with safe haven until they could escape Thedas and the long arms of Flemeth. 

“That’s all you brought?” Malcolm asked Nuala.

She blinked and glanced down at the bag she held before looking up at Malcolm. “Yes. It’s... all I cared to. And I hadn’t much in clothing beforehand, not being—”

“A noble. I know.” Malcolm sighed. “It escapes me, sometimes, even though I should be aware of it. Fresh clothing is a luxury, I realize.” He glanced at Alistair. “Is Nuala in the Crown’s employ, Highever’s employ, or the Wardens?”

Alistair pursed his lips in thought. “Good question. I suspect it would be the Crown’s since the Grey Wardens really don’t employ nurses that I know of, and you aren’t living at Highever. And as long as the Landsmeet agrees to the legitimation—which I don’t imagine they won’t—Cáel will be in the line of succession. I’m assuming that means the Crown is Nuala’s ultimate employer.” He flashed a smile down at the elf beside him. “Ha! I’m your boss!”

“When it comes to nurses, the lady of the household is always in charge.” Nuala inclined her head toward Líadan. “As his mother, she’s the lady.”

Alistair gave Líadan a quizzical look. “When did you become a lady?”

“Just now. I believe of a higher order than you could ever grant, Your Majesty.”

“You know, I’m just going to leave that one alone.” He frowned slightly, fingers idly scratching at the scruff on his chin. “But the royal retinue isn’t leaving for Denerim until after the Divine arrives, and then only once all business with her is concluded here in Highever. It could be a week, it could be a few weeks. Maker willing, it’ll just be a week, not including travel time. However, that would leave you without proper clothing or much of anything else until we got to the palace. That just wouldn’t do.”

“He’s new at this,” Malcolm said when Alistair fell silent for a moment.

“I can tell,” said Nuala.

Alistair narrowed his eyes at the both of them. “And neither of you are very nice people.”

Nuala raised both her eyebrows. “I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly nice.”

Malcolm made a show of staring up at the ceiling instead of answering. “I never noticed the mosaic up there. What lovely work.”

Líadan held in a laugh, which only became more difficult when Nuala looked over at her. “Yes, they’re always like this,” she said, answering the new nurse’s unspoken question.

“Funny what you don’t hear about the King and his brother down in the marketplace. I had no idea they act just as one would expect little boys to, like my very young cousins in Denerim.” Bringing up the city seemed to bring a recollection of the earlier conversation. “And what was it I heard about going to the city?” she asked. 

“Hildur is having Malcolm run the Grey Warden compound near the palace,” said Líadan.

“Hildur also said you were supposed to be helping me,” said Malcolm.

She ignored him, continuing to speak with Nuala. “So when Alistair’s retinue heads back to Denerim with the Divine’s, we’ll be going with them.”

Nuala smiled, the first bright smile Líadan had seen her have. “Out of the choice between Vigil’s Keep and Denerim, I did prefer Denerim. My family’s still in the Elven Quarter. Well, not my mother. But my father is still there, and last I heard from him, he still has guardianship of my cousin Rhian. It will be nice to spend time with them, I think. I mean, if I’m granted time.”

“There’s always time for family,” said Alistair. “Especially when you’re one of the people helping take care of mine.”

Behind his brother the King, Malcolm rolled his eyes, and then proceeded to act as if he were gagging.

“Little brother,” said Fergus as he stepped through the doors from the main hall and caught sight of Malcolm’s playacting, “you really should refrain from acting as if you are still twelve years old.”

Alistair whirled around. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing.” Malcolm did, however, take a few steps backward and out of immediate striking distance.

As Alistair advanced on a retreating Malcolm, Fergus shook his head and turned his attention to Nuala. “If you haven’t planned on doing anything straight away, I can take you to my seneschal, Robert, and he’ll see that you’re properly outfitted.” Nuala nodded, and Fergus returned the nod with a grin. “Good.” He looked toward Líadan. “And if you’d be so kind as to drag Malcolm away from Alistair so you can let Panowen and Ariane know that Nuala has arrived, that would be wonderful.”

“I thought noble households had pages or messengers or footmen to do those sorts of things,” said Nuala. “I mean, instead of sending Grey Wardens.”

“Oh, we do. However, I suspect putting a little distance between the King and his brother would be a good idea for the time being.” Fergus’ words caused them all to return their attention to Malcolm and Alistair.

“This is about the height thing, isn’t it?” Alistair was asking, having gotten Malcolm to back up against a wall.

“No. Okay, possibly yes. And don’t think this is over, either. You aren’t taller than me.”

“I am! Look, we can just stand right next to each other on this wall, and someone can judge our heights to compare. Or we could mark on the wall where our height is. That’ll settle it.”

“Until you override it with some stupid kingly decree that says how far your hair sticks up counts toward your overall height. No. Not falling for it. You just keep telling yourself lies if it makes you feel better.” Malcolm uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the wall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fetch my son.” He muttered to himself as he passed Fergus, Líadan, and Nuala, barely acknowledging each of them with a nod before heading for the main doors. She could tell from the lack of tension in this shoulders that he wasn’t truly upset. Just putting on an act for Alistair, an act that Alistair probably saw right through, just as she had.

“Quite lively here, isn’t it?” asked Nuala.

Fergus laughed. “I’ll say. Come on. We’ll bring the King with us as well, to teach him more about how a household runs, since apparently he’s clueless.”

Líadan gave them nods and smiles before chasing down Malcolm out in the yard.

He was still grousing, even as he walked toward the Dalish camp. He did manage to smile when he saw Líadan, but went right back to it, even as he conversed with her. “Maybe I’ll grow my hair way long and then make it stick up with lime like the ancient Avvars did. Then his stupid ‘my hair makes me taller’ rule will bite him in the ass.”

Líadan pretended to consider his idea. Then she said, “I’ve heard some of the Avvars also charged into battle clothed in only the woad painted upon their bodies. Will you be doing the same?”

Her question caused him to stumble through a couple of his steps along the pathway next to the defense wall. “For real? Or is this some sort of... _other_ request?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I haven’t decided.”

“You might want to. Because for actual battle, that sounds very dangerous. Also cold.”

“In the height of summer?” All right, now the idea, while only said to throw him, was beginning to have some appeal. She could stand to watch that, she supposed. More than stand.

“ _Besides_ that, going into battle without armor would be ridiculous.”

“Not what your Avvars thought. From what I read, they insisted it struck fear in their enemies.”

“Oh, right. Fear, falling on the ground laughing, same thing. Yeah, no. Not running into battle wearing nothing but what the Maker gave me. And that goes double for battles against darkspawn. Those genlocks would be at a _really_ bad height.”

She halted and stared at him. “Genlocks? Really? You just completely ruined my fantasy.”

His eyebrows nearly crawled to his hairline. “Fantasy? I thought you were daring me to actually go into battle like that! And then I go ruin... blast it.”

She sighed and resumed their walk. “Probably for the best. If the woad didn’t dry completely, there’d be blue everywhere. In really inappropriate places. Best not to try it.” Then she cursed and elbowed him hard in the ribs. “You had to bring up genlocks, didn’t you? Utterly destroyed.”

Malcolm resumed his grousing under his breath, mostly threats involving how he would get even with his brother. In the camp, they found Panowen and Ariane speaking with Lanaya and some of the other hunters at the fire. Already, aravels were being packed up, the campsite being returned as much as possible to what it’d been like before the Dalish had arrived. The statues of the Creators were still out—they would be the last items packed away in their own aravel, along with the fencing for the halla pens. While they were there, plans were confirmed for the bonding the following night, and it didn’t escape Líadan’s notice that Malcolm’s movements began to resemble a skittish young halla’s. The behavior continued as they returned to the keep, Panowen ahead of them with Cáel and Ariane. 

“Why are you acting like that?” Líadan finally asked Malcolm.

His eyes darted in her direction. “Acting like what?”

“You’re worse than a month old halla right now.”

He frowned as he tried to work out the equivalent human expression. “Is that much like a colt?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I’m totally not.” When Ariane shot a skeptical look over her shoulder, which accompanied Líadan’s equally as skeptical glance, he relented. “Okay, maybe. It’s just—I realized the bonding is tomorrow and I don’t know what happens during this clan’s bondings.”

“Simple,” said Panowen. “You are bonded.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks for filling me in on the one part I _do_ know.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Líadan.

“Don’t think I have’t noticed your failure to provide details. Does this mean weird stuff happens? Dalish stuff of myth and legend? Frolicking in the forest? Dancing naked under the full moon?”

“Yes,” said Panowen.

“Really?” asked Malcolm, his voice cracking at the end of the word.

Each of the women started to laugh. “No,” Líadan managed to say. “Nothing like that. Usually bondings are in the daytime, in front of the whole clan. And with everyone clothed.”

“You know,” he said, despite letting out a sigh that sounded like relief, “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.”

Líadan squinted in thought. “Come to think of it, neither do I.”

“Relieved,” said Ariane. “I’m of no mind to see a human’s comparatively hairy body.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m not as hairy as you seem to think,” said Malcolm.

“She did say ‘comparatively,’” said Líadan. “And this is probably a subject of conversation you most likely would not want to continue.” Malcolm’s lack of reply confirmed her suspicions.

As they got closer to the keep’s main doors, Líadan noticed Panowen’s grip on Cáel become tighter, and she was speaking quietly to the child. She’d known Panowen had a strong bond with him since she’d nursed him from right after he was born, but it was another thing to see the strength of her reaction at being separated for good. Or, so long that it would seem like for good. Líadan wasn’t sure if it helped or hindered them to have the Ra’asiel departing for an unknown, likely long, period of time almost straight after. Either way, it was reality, and had to be faced.

Yet Líadan continued to close her eyes to her own.

In the castle, Panowen’s relinquishing of Cáel to Nuala was bittersweet. She seemed sad to let the child go, yet expressed being happy to know he was in good care, and that she could leave with her clan without fretting over his well being. For Malcolm and Líadan, it meant Cáel and his effect on their lives had become far more tangible with his living at the castle full time.

Not wanting to prolong the transfer, Panowen and Ariane excused themselves to return to the Ra’asiel to help with moving preparations. Nuala mentioned she needed to go prepare the room they’d given her to sleep in, and to be used as a nursery. “I’ll take him,” said Malcolm, extending his arms at the same time. After depositing the child in Malcolm’s hands, Nuala practically ran toward the family quarters.

“I think she’s happy about her job,” said Malcolm. “Unless she’s running out one of the rear entrances instead.”

Líadan smiled. “She’s happy. It’s... it’s a good distraction for her, she told me. She has something positive to focus on instead of dwelling on what she’s lost.”

“Something else to focus on _is_ a good way to keep from dwelling,” said Malcolm. “Unless you’re determined to wallow, like I tend to do.”

She wanted to disagree with him, yet knew the truth. “You do tend to linger in whatever strong emotion you’re feeling or memory you’re reliving.”

He laughed softly. “That’s putting it diplomatically, you know. You can call a spade a spade. I mire in my grief. And in my anger. I’d like to think it’s gotten better—”

“It has.” That much was true.

“—but the tendency is still there, and I doubt it will ever entirely disappear. That much is apparent from how I still react to Morrigan’s fate.” He held Cáel higher and studied the boy’s eyes. “Except he’s a good thing to focus on instead. And you, child, just got a whole lot more real.”

In answer, Cáel reached out with open fingers to snag the leather thong around Malcolm’s neck. Once he had it, he went to bring the Warden pendant and Morrigan’s ring to his mouth.

Líadan quickly snatched the babe’s wrist and deftly separated curious fingers from deadly liquid and choking hazard. “Oh, no. You don’t want those. You might think you do, but you most certainly don’t. I’d prefer it if you’d not become a Grey Warden in your infancy. Or ever. Preferably ever.”

Malcolm tucked the pendant and ring back under his shirt. “I should really put Morrigan’s ring away for safekeeping, but I’m not sure where it’d be safe other than on my person. Well, you could wear it, I suppose. Wouldn’t be safe for Cáel to wear it for more than a few years. Feels a little strange to wear it, though, considering how everything has changed so much. I mean, what if Morrigan doesn’t murder Nathaniel for following her without permission, and in all the years they’ll end up spending together, they hook up with each other? And then they come back and I’m still wearing her ring? Uncomfortable and potentially deadly.” He looked down at the pendant and ring, and then over to her. “I think you should wear it next to your pendant until Cáel’s old enough to wear it safely _and_ not lose it, which could be a decade or more, now that I think about it. I was incredibly good at losing things as a boy.”

The offer also stood as proof of how much Malcolm had gotten over Morrigan—not that he didn’t still care for her, but that the type of love they shared was very different from what it had once been, Líadan realized. “I’ll wear it,” she said out loud.

He nodded. “Good.” Then he reconsidered the child he held. “All right, I’ll bring him up to Nuala before he bursts into tears from being hungry. I did hear from Panowen that it’s been a few hours since he’s eaten. Find you later?” She nodded in return, and then he was off, providing her with an easy opportunity to pay a visit to Wade.

When the master smith handed her his finished creation, she nearly kissed him. “This is perfect,” she said, even managing not to hug the man. Unlike Alistair, she had far better control over such impulses.

“It is acceptable,” said Wade, which, from him, was practically calling it perfect. “When will I ever be able to speak about creating it?”

She bit her lip as she thought. “I don’t know.”

“It’s like in a play,” said Herren. “Romance and tragedy, never far apart.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Upon ascending to the second floor of the tower, we were greeted by a gruesome sight: a ragged collection of bones wearing the robes of one of the senior enchanters. I had known her for years, watched her raise countless apprentices, and now she was a mere puppet for some demon.” ****

— _transcribed from a tale told by a templar in Antiva City_ , 7:13 Storm

**Anders**

****_I liked it better when you were just Justice._ _Vengeance sounds so... vengeful._

**_I am Justice. I am no different._ **

****Despite the spirit’s protests, Anders wasn’t convinced in the least. It was a futile conversation he’d had several times a day for the past—Maker, how long had it been?

**_Far too long._ **

****_Shut up, I wasn’t talking to you. Thinking to you. Whatever._

In answer, Justice went into a little silent snit, and Anders was glad. Who would’ve thought Vengeance would be so _mouthy_? Not him, that was for certain. He’d also not thought Justice would morph into Vengeance, but he wasn’t keeping count of how many of his assumptions had turned out to be outrageously wrong. He kept referring to the spirit as Justice in the hopes that he would return to his normal self. It had yet to happen, and Anders was quickly losing hope. As each day passed, more of himself became subsumed into the twisted and powerful entity that was Vengeance. At some point, he knew Anders would be completely gone, and Vengeance would become very not contained, and more bad things would happen.

He’d done his best to restrain Vengeance since he’d appeared, as it were, managing to regain his sense of self around the time he arrived in Kirkwall. After avoiding the templars lurking at the city gate, he followed other Fereldans and ended up in Darktown, where he found himself a nice little niche. Literally, considering the tiny amount of space his healing clinic had. But the Darktown and Lowtown residents found him highly useful, as did the various criminal elements in Kirkwall’s underbelly, so the thugs left him alone unless they needed healing, and the civilian residents helped keep the templars away. Justice was absolutely fine with the latter, but argued every time he helped one of the former. But there wasn’t a fat lot of good he could do to help the mages’ plight if he were _dead_ , so he ignored Justice’s protests and continued helping.

It also kept him busy, distracted, and chatting less with the spirit who shared his physical body. It led to fewer appearances of Vengeance, and he decided that was a good thing. For everyone, really, considering the people burning up in flames that tended to happen when Vengeance dropped in for a visit. Justice was all right to have around, even if he was a bit stuffy and stuck in his ways. Vengeance, well. Vengeance was a dick. There was no other way to describe it.

**_It is an ill-fitting description._ **

****_I miss my cat._

**_Your cat._ **

_Yes, my cat. I miss him._

**_What does your cat have to do with Vengeance’s appellations?_ **

****_Nothing at all._

**_Then why bring it up?_ **

****_Because I miss him. Also because I don’t want to talk about Vengeance. You aren’t very good at taking hints._

**_Hints are a waste of time. Justice does not prevaricate._ **

****Anders sighed. _I miss my cat._

This time, Justice got the hint, and did not reply.

Anders, who’d brought up his cat to distract Justice, found he couldn’t stop thinking about Ser Pounce. He really did miss him, and wondered if he could find the elf he’d given him to. If the human Bethany had taken Ser Pounce, it’d be harder to find her. But there really was only once place in a city where an elf would be living, and the alienage in Kirkwall wasn’t overly large. Plus, Merrill was Dalish, so that would help if he had to ask around. He stood up, decision made. No patients had come in for hours, so he had the time. Might as well make good use of it.

Of course, that was when a mother carrying her incredibly ill young son stumbled into the clinic, the father trailing behind, and both begging for help for their child. He happily provided said help. Justice would say—did say—it was the just thing to do. Anders believed it was the _nice_ thing to do. It helped him feel better because he was good at it. Better than Wynne, even though he doubted the woman would ever admit it.

The boy’s parents didn’t seem to blink as they watched him work. The father stood stock-still while the mother alternately clasped her hands together or tugged at a loose thread on the hem of her shirt. The silence would have unnerved him if it hadn’t been ideal for his concentration. They should have brought him this boy _days_ ago. The illness had ravaged his lungs, enough that Anders had to call on Justice’s extra power he could draw from the Fade to assist him. It wasn’t often he needed to do that. Admittedly, it did come in handy for a spirit healer to have a spirit already in residence when he had to call upon them. Saved a step in critical situations.

Anders was left wrung out after he finished healing the child. The mother thanked him quietly and started out of the clinic with her now healthy boy at her side. The father clapped him on the shoulder, slipped him a few silvers, and followed them. Anders slumped against the rough wall of his clinic, with only mere scraps remaining of his own mana. It would leave him defenseless for a while, but it had been worth it. The life of a child always was.

Then he heard the tread of heavy boots, armored boots, practically marching through his doorway. His mind shouted _Templar!_ Justice did the same, which summoned Vengeance, because Anders wouldn’t be able to act in his own defense without his magic. He spun around, stave out and ready, magic swirling around him as Vengeance took over. “I have made this a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?”

 _Who says that?_  

The spirit, of course, didn’t answer. 

Anders, not yet entirely shoved aside by the force of Vengeance, managed to notice that along with the heavily booted fellow who wasn’t wearing templar armor, was Bethany. Bethany, who also happened to be a lovely apostate and very much not any danger to him whatsoever. Which meant Vengeance could sod off and let him handle this. He yelled at the spirit to hold on, to refrain from entirely taking over and ruining everyone’s day yet again.

**_They threaten us._ **

_What? For Maker’s sake, you ass, it’s Bethany. As in, not a threat. Stand down._

The anger and outrage faded, and then slipped away, giving Anders his body and mind back. He cleared his throat, wishing he felt less awkward. “Er, sorry.” He made an attempt to smile apologetically, but judging from the young man’s dismissive sneer, he failed. “Bethany, what brings you down to the darkest depths of wonderful Kirkwall?”

“I’d heard rumors you were down here,” said Bethany, who didn’t seem bothered by the little display of Fade spirit interference.

Well, that was good. However, there seemed to be something missing from her sentence—such as a _point_ —and so he waited.

She shuffled her feet. “Are you still a Grey Warden?”

“Technically.” He resisted giving her a skeptical look, though he did toss a wary one in the young man’s direction before returning to Bethany. “It isn’t something you can give back. They did mention something about an oath that cannot be forsworn, but it’s a bit more complicated when you really study the whole thing.” He cleared his throat. “Why do you ask?”

More foot shuffling on Bethany’s part before she managed to say, “My sister needs your help.”

“My help? Is she hurt beyond your capability for healing? I’d be happy to help. You did, after all, once help me.” He was already gathering the necessaries as he spoke, shoving potions and poultices into his pockets.

“No, she’s not hurt,” said the young man.

Bethany glared at him before looking at Anders again. “Anders, meet my brother, Carver. Carver, meet Anders.”

Carver tossed off a quick hello before rounding on Bethany. “Look, are you going to ask him or not, because I’ve got better things to do than stand around in Darktown all night.”

Anders had stopped putting the supplies in his pockets in favor of emptying them. “Bethany,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowed at her, “what is it you need?”

“You don’t happen to have maps of the Deep Roads, do you?”

“Maps of the—you’re having me on, aren’t you? You must be, since I had told you before that your sister going on a jaunt into the Deep Roads was an incredibly stupid idea, and therefore, she should not do it.” When she didn’t agree that it was a joke, his stare at her became incredulous. “You’re serious?”

She pursed her lips briefly, as if fighting a scowl. “Unfortunately.”

Anders sighed. “If you really want me to do you a favor, you should have me knock some sense into her thick skull.”

“Do you have the maps or not?” asked Carver as he stepped between Anders and Bethany.

“Let me talk to your sister. Marian, was it? Maybe I can convince her not to go. Make her see reason.”

Carver snorted, and then turned to walk out of the clinic. “Good luck with _that_.”

“Do you really have to talk to her?” Bethany asked Anders.

“Do you want my help or not?” Anders wasn’t about to aid and abet someone else in journeying into the Deep Roads.

It was Bethany’s turn to sigh. “She’s probably at the Hanged Man with Varric if you really think you can convince her not to go.”

“My coin’s on Marian,” said Carver from outside the open door.

Bethany looked up at Anders. “You want a brother? I’ve got one available. Good price. A steal. I’ll pay you to take him.”

“If I get a new family, then I get one without mages this time,” said Carver.

Carver and Bethany kept at their sniping as Anders closed up his clinic and followed them to the tavern they’d spoken of in Lowtown. Just five minutes of listening to them bicker gave Anders a headache and made him grateful, for the first time in his life, of being raised in the Circle. If this was what it meant to have a sibling, he wanted no part of it.

Once inside the Hanged Man, Carver peeled off to lounge at the bar, while Bethany led Anders to a table in a far corner. Marian Hawke—the family resemblance between her, Carver, and Bethany strikingly clear—sat next to a beardless dwarf, with a large pile of parchment scattered between them. Bethany cleared her throat, which made both of them look up. “Sister, this is Anders, the Grey Warden I told you about. Anders, this is my sister, Marian, and the dwarf is—”

“Varric Tethras, at your service,” said the dwarf as he stood to give Anders a quick bow. “I hear you have some maps of the Deep Roads in your possession.”

“About that,” said Anders, turning to level a steady look at Marian. “Have you ever considered joining the Grey Wardens? They’d be happy to satisfy the inexplicable need you have to visit the Deep Roads.”

Marian blinked at the blunt statement. “No, can’t say that I have. After they were killed in droves at Ostagar, I really didn’t feel compelled to sign up.”

“Yet you insist on going in the Deep Roads? Since joining the Wardens is out, I could just thump you soundly over the head for being stupid. Look, even Grey Wardens avoid the Deep Roads as much as they can. Nothing’s down there except inevitable doom, Grey Wardens included.”

“Also treasure,” said Varric. “Hence going.”

“It’s the only way my family and I will be able to get ahead,” Marian said quietly, as if ashamed of admitting to her family’s poor fortune. 

Which, Anders realized, she probably was. Refugees generally weren’t proud of their status, and generally didn’t have time to consolidate all their worldly goods to bring with them before fleeing. On top of that, getting into Kirkwall had been difficult during the Blight, and many months after. He’d heard enough stories from the patients at his clinic, of where they managed to bring decent coin or possessions with them out of Ferelden, only to have to use them for bribes to enter the city. Lucky refugees found places in Lowtown. Unlucky refugees ended up in Darktown.

**_Refugees should be helped. The Chantry has a responsibility to all they claim to govern spiritually._ **

****_Yeah, well, it seems they’ve run out of shits to give when it comes to Ferelden’s refugees._

He sighed and addressed Marian again. “When do you need the maps?”

“Yesterday.”

“How did you even come up with the idea? Did you just wake up one morning and decide the Deep Roads would be a fantastic vacation spot?”

Varric fielded that question. “My brother Bartrand heard a rumor of a nearby Deep Roads entrance. When he confirmed that it was actually there, he figured it’d be a good time to go.”

“It’s never a good time to go,” Anders said to Varric before returning to Marian. “When exactly are you planning on going?”

She didn’t look even slightly abashed when she replied, “Tomorrow morning. After sunrise, so we have a chance to say good bye to the sun.”

He stood up straight. “Andraste’s flaming—you honestly waited until the day before to ask?”

“We were busy.” She did at least break eye contact with that one.

“Busy.”

“Killing things. People.” Her eyes widened slightly at how bad her words sounded, and she attempted to clarify. “Bad people who tried to kill us first.” At Anders’ skeptical look, she became indignant. “Have you walked the streets of Kirkwall at night? Nevermind the templars. Crazy-arsed thugs will just drop in on you—sometimes _literally_ —and try to take your stuff. I take exception when people try to take my things.”

“Can’t say that I’ve run into that. Maybe they leave me alone because I haven’t anything valuable enough to take.”

She laughed. “You’d be surprised. They’ll take anything. Seriously, I once found a pair of ripped pantaloons in one woman’s pocket.”

“You were looting their bodies?” Anders asked, but it was definitely more Justice’s question than his, because Anders had done the very same thing before. Necessity overrode respect for the dead in some cases. Especially if the newly dead had been trying to make you dead first.

“Well, I always say,” came a voice Anders recognized but couldn’t place, “if we kill them, we get their stuff. Only fair.” The woman had spoken as she sauntered over from the bar, and then she settled herself next to Marian at the table. “You can’t expect Hawke to be any different, Anders.”

Ah, right. The Rivaini pirate who’d transported them from West Hill. It had been quite an enjoyable voyage overall, given the amount of time he’d spent in the captain’s cabin. Not only had Isabela’s seas been lovely to ply, but Sigrun had been surprisingly enthusiastic as well. Both of them had overwhelmingly approved of his little trick with lightning. He gave her a warm smile, because of the good memories, and because it made Justice grumble about fornication and sin in the background. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be fair, Isabela,” Anders said.

Hawke’s light blue eyes widened as she glanced between the two of them. “You know each other?”

“Do we ever!” said Isabela, looking entirely too pleased with herself for Anders to feel safe about keeping his dignity intact.

Then again, if it meant another night or more spent with her, he didn’t need dignity all that much. Overrated. He wondered how long she’d be in port at Kirkwall. “When are you due to set sail?” he asked. “I’ve been reconsidering my position on becoming a pirate.”

**_You have not._ **

_She knows._

**_You should not lie._ **

****_Is it really a lie if the other person knows you’re lying?_

**_Prevarication._ **

****_Are their lady spirits in the Fade?_

**_Not that I am aware. We do not make that distinction._ **

****_Too bad. I think you could use some time with a woman. Or a man. Whatever’s your fancy._

**_This is a waste of time._ **

****_And that’s why you need to get laid._

Justice went off in another snit, and Anders turned his full attention to the group, where Isabela was finishing her explanation that she’d lost her ship on the reefs along the Wounded Coast. “Learned my lesson,” she said. “Never get drunk and then try to sail along the Wounded Coast. You’d be surprised at how much reefs can look like candy.”

“One day, Rivaini, you’ll tell us what really happened to your ship,” said Varric.

“One day.” But she didn’t speak of her ship any longer, instead glancing over to Hawke. “I overheard that you’re still determined to go to the Deep Roads tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan. Well, if Anders cooperates. He’s been really evasive on the matter of the maps.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been very direct, in fact. As in, I directly told you that going into the Deep Roads is idiotic.”

“Actually, I believe you used the word ‘stupid,’” said Varric.

Marian leaned forward, elbows on the wooden table that was worn smooth by other patrons doing the same, and studied Anders. Then she asked, “Do you even have any maps?”

Anders crossed his arms. He knew it looked defensive, but he didn’t care. That, and he _was_ on the defensive. “Believe it or not, maps of the Deep Roads aren’t as common as you think. Most of the maps are at the Shaperate in Orzammar, or in the hands of the Legion of the Dead, especially the most recent ones. Some Warden Commanders have them, but only if they stop by the Shaperate on their way to the Deep Roads, or stop by to get the maps before they head out to a different entrance. And maps aren’t even very useful due to how straight forward the Deep Roads can be, Warden or not. Death, darkspawn, and unpleasant little beasties of all sorts. Oh, wait, and doom by way of taint or lava. Personally, I’d pick the lava. It’s quicker.”

Marian’s mouth gaped slightly as her level gaze turned into a stare. “So,” she said after a moment of silence, “no maps, then?”

“Aside from the knowledge in my head, I haven’t any maps. Nor do I know of any Wardens around here who’d have said maps. Ferelden would be your best bet if you were really intent on getting your hands on the maps without going to Orzammar, but I somehow doubt the Fereldan Wardens would just hand them over. Most likely, they’d beat you over the head with a stick for being so stupid.” Líadan would, certainly. And Anders would totally watch that fight.

“But you know how to navigate down there.” Marian sat back in her chair and crossed her arms to mirror Anders’ posture. “I’ve heard Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn.”

Anders, more than getting the hint that this little group wanted him to go back into the Deep Roads, shot to his feet. “I don’t like the direction you’re going in.”

Marian smiled brightly. “Want to come with us?”

“No, not really.” Her smile almost charmed him into agreeing, but Andraste’s knickers, it was the _Deep Roads_. 

“There’ll be gold that we’ll share.”

“Not interested.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isabela look vaguely disappointed.

“We’ll be going even if you don’t come along,” said Marian. “Without a Warden to guide us, our chances of survival drop precipitously, don’t they?”

Blast. She had him pegged, it seemed. He still had a fairly decent amount of lives left to save to make up for Vengeance’s actions, both past and future. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I really don’t want anyone getting themselves killed if I can help it.”

“Don’t worry, sweet thing,” said Isabela. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

They were a little late setting out from Kirkwall due to Bethany, Carver, and Marian arriving at the agreed meeting place a bit behind schedule. Marian seemed mildly amused about something, but Bethany more than made up for her sister’s lack of irritation. Varric made a comment about their lateness, and Bethany took the opening to launch into a tirade about her brother having announced he was going to join the templars after their Deep Roads expedition. Their mother had objected, but only about him still going into the Deep Roads. Leandra Hawke’s assertion had been that Carver should stay out of the Deep Roads and join the templars as soon as possible.

Carver’s two apostate sisters thought otherwise, arguments had ensued, and the Hawkes had been late.

Anders almost thought the mother had made the most intelligent point about staying _out_ of the Deep Roads. However, he decided it would be best to keep quiet. Fenris, the elf Anders had met in passing as they milled about waiting for the Hawkes to show, made a comment along the lines of what Anders had been thinking. The murderous look on Bethany’s face when she whirled on Fenris made Anders very happy that he’d kept his opinions to himself for once. Carver, on his part, refrained from making eye contact with either of his sisters.

This was going to be a _wonderful_ trip.

“We waiting on anyone else?” asked Bartrand, Varric’s older brother, and the one who was supposed to be in charge of the expedition. “Or can we finally get going?”

“All set,” said Marian.

Anders frowned. “Where’s Isabela?” She hadn’t indicated the night before that she hadn’t been planning on going on the expedition with the rest of them. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t had plenty of time to mention it. Anders hadn’t gotten back to Darktown to pack what he needed until nearly dawn. Between romping with Isabela, and Justice hiding in a sulk the entire night, it’d been worth the loss of sleep.

“She mentioned something about pirates belonging on the open sea and not squished under a thousand tons of rock.” Marian grinned at him. “Also that her Deep Roads had already been thoroughly explored.”

“ _Maker_ ,” muttered Carver. “Because we really needed to hear that.”

“If Isabela has already explored the Deep Roads, why do we need to go?” asked Merrill.

Carver sighed. “Not those Deep Roads, Merrill.”

“I missed something dirty, didn’t I?”

Carver elected not to answer, aside from another sigh.

“Yes, you did.” Marian slung an arm around the elf’s slim shoulders and drew her close. “I’ll explain it to you as we walk.”

Bartrand took the hint and set out, motioning for everyone else to follow. Anders found himself walking next to Varric. He indicated Merrill in front of them, whispering madly with Hawke. “So, is Merrill always like that? I mean, she was training to be a Keeper once, right? You’d think someone who’ll become a Keeper would have more...” Anders searched for the most diplomatic way to put it.

“Smarts?” asked Varric. “Daisy’s smart. Don’t let her fool you. I haven’t gotten a straight answer out of her yet about it, but I swear all those inane questions she asks are just her messing with us. She must have a grand sense of humor. And if you’ve ever seen her work with anything Dalish or her magic, you’d realize how brilliant Daisy is.” Varric sighed. “Even if she insists she doesn’t understand anything dirty. Maybe it’s because she lived with the Dalish for so long.”

“Not sure I buy it,” said Anders. “The other Dalish elves I’ve spent time with—mages both—didn’t seem so clueless about worldly things.”

“Which is why I think it’s a brilliant act on her part,” said Varric.

At least attempting to discern if Merrill was putting them all on or truly had no clue about the way of the world gave something for Anders to concentrate on other than the taint, the darkspawn, and the Deep Roads. The first time they fought the darkspawn, Anders thought he was imagining things. Had to be, because the often adorable Merrill and the image he had of a typical blood mage just did not mesh at all. Then he remembered the conversation Marethari and Líadan had when they’d visited the Mahariel, and the Keeper saying Merrill had learned blood magic. Of course, Marethari could’ve been making it up, because she wasn’t the most straightforward of women. 

The second time, however, he saw it with his own eyes. It bothered him only in how not bothered he was by it. Varric had been right—anything to do with magic, and Merrill practically shone with brilliance. More than likely, her spells would’ve been quite effective without the use of blood as power. But driven by blood, they were devastating.

He wondered if demons plagued her, like the Chantry and the Circle said, either for her innate power as a mage, or because of her blood magic.

**_Only one._ **

****_Just one?_

**_A pride demon. He has driven away all others. She has remained out of his grasp thus far, but the situation warrants close observation and much caution._ **

****_Do you think she’d fall prey to the pride demon like Velanna did?_

**_I do not know this ‘Velanna.’_ **

****_Pride demon. Abomination. Very bad end. She meant well, but... you know. Temptation._

**_I do not know temptation._ **

****_If we could all be so certain._

Despite what he said, Anders wasn’t so sure Justice hadn’t been tempted, not with the development of Vengeance. But wasn’t about to _say_ so, because he didn’t really want to see Vengeance, and Vengeance always popped out whenever Justice was threatened lately. And making Justice question himself? A threat. More a threat than a blood mage who seemed to be in perfect control.

The third skirmish stopped being a skirmish and became a battle when they were nearly overwhelmed. They’d been figuratively licking their wounds, assuming the fight over, when Anders barely had time to warn them about another wave. Maker, it’d almost been like the darkspawn had hidden themselves. He’d only encountered that once before, right before he and his group were taken prisoner by the Architect. The darkspawn didn’t give him time to contemplate his revelation, and soon enough, he was mired in the battle.

When it was over, he was completely drained, and had almost been forced to ask for Justice’s help. Bethany and Merrill were no better off. Merrill was woozy from blood loss, and Bethany was slow to get up after a hurlock had bowled her over. She’d had to knock him out with her stave before Carver could kill him. Marian looked irritated at being covered with muck, while Fenris glared over at Merrill. 

“Must you perform blood magic?” he asked, his question hurled in accusation.

Before Merrill could answer, Marian jammed the hilt of her sword into Fenris’ side, a substitution for an elbow since he was wearing armor. “I don’t know about you, but I prefer living. And I’m not sure if you noticed, but her magic pretty much saved our collective asses. So shut up about the blood magic being cursed.”

“She could fall prey to a demon and turn on us.”

Marian rolled her eyes. “Or the darkspawn will kill us all first. I’ll take my chances with the demon.”

“We need to get moving,” Bartrand said as he came up behind them with the rest of the caravan of non-combatants. “Daylight’s wasting.”

Fenris, with a final disgusted look tossed toward Merrill, took point. Carver followed him for support, while the rest of them remained with the caravan, either needing healing or a rest through a slower pace. “I miss daylight,” said Merrill, staring wistfully up ahead, probably imagining said daylight. “And the sun. The Deep Roads could use some greenery, perhaps a bit of color. Flowers, maybe.”

“Keep dreaming, Daisy,” said Varric. “Someone has to.”

“Actually, I do know of one place in the Deep Roads like she suggested,” said Anders. Then he stopped, realizing that perhaps he should keep his mouth shut about that story, considering they’d been after an eluvian, and Merrill had her own little obsession with a shard of one. He didn’t want to give her ideas; she had plenty of her own already.

Varric gave him an expectant look. “You can’t leave us hanging like that, Blondie. We’re in the Deep Roads. If you’ve got a little piece of hope, share it with the class.”

“It isn’t anywhere nearby.”

“We can pretend. I highly recommend pretending while in the Deep Roads. Less doom that way.”

Anders sighed in resignation. “Fine. It’s a place we went to, when I was traveling with the Fereldan Wardens. It’s called Cadash thaig, and it’s completely untainted. Fresh water, grass, flowers, the works. There’s cracks high up in the roof, so sunlight can filter in. Really quite refreshing after weeks in the rest of the Deep Roads. Nearest the Shaperate scholars who studied it could figure, the thaig was closed off before the First Blight. So the darkspawn just never got to it. And the Legion of the Dead keeps an outpost there now, to keep the darkspawn from getting in. So, there you go. Happiness in the Deep Roads, such as it is.”

“What Fereldan Wardens did you travel with?” asked Varric. “You never told.”

“You never asked.”

“He traveled with my clanmate, Líadan,” Merrill said to Varric. Then she muttered more to herself, “Former clanmate,” before she turned to Anders, her eyes almost beseeching. “You must have more stories about what she’s been up to, Anders. Lots of adventure, right?”

He shrugged. “Well, you know. The usual. Killing darkspawn, some dragons, the occasional hapless bandit.”

“Dragons!” Merrill’s excitement resembled Sigrun’s in a way. “Did they breathe fire?”

“Wouldn’t be a proper dragon if it didn’t.”

Merrill’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “And Líadan helped kill it?”

“Well.” Right, he’d cornered himself with that one, and by his own doing. “We didn’t exactly kill it. I mean, we were in the process of doing so. Oghren had even hacked off its tail. Then I cast a blizzard, and right around then, an actual blizzard hit from the Waking Sea. The dragon flew off. I guess they don’t like cold? Meanwhile, Líadan was actually trapped in a cave-in, so she missed the whole fight.”

“You need better dragon-slaying stories,” said Varric. “Ones with actual dragon-slaying instead of dragon-fleeing.”

“What? It wasn’t like we could chase after it. We haven’t got griffons.”

“Oh!” Merrill clapped her hands together. “I’d like a griffon. I’d name it Feathers.”

“Can it, you lot!” came Bartrand’s yell from the front. “Looks like we’ve got a cave-in blocking the main road up here.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Let me guess,” he shouted back at his brother, “you want us to find a new route for you?”

“What do you think I’m paying you for?”

“I thought Hawke paid him?” asked Merrill.

Bethany shrugged, her face still pale from the skirmish earlier.

It took the better part of a day to find a different route, as well as search for the son of one of the caravan members. A strange sort of boy, Anders thought. Dwarves weren’t supposed to have magic, but somehow, the boy had frozen an ogre solid without the aid of potions or anything. It didn’t help solve the mystery of the boy when he also couldn’t speak properly.

**_He is intriguing. I cannot tell if he is connected to the Fade or not._ **

****_That’d be ‘or not.’ He’s a dwarf. They have no association with the Fade._

**_Perhaps he is not really a dwarf._ **

****_Looks like one to me._

**_I will think more on this._ **

****_You do that._

It also didn’t help any of them cope with the gloom of the Deep Roads when Bartrand couldn’t exactly say where it was they were headed. “Down,” was the most they got out of him. After several days, down wasn’t nearly enough. Carver broke first, and began pestering Bartrand for more information. Fenris quickly followed Carver’s example.

Anders ignored them, as well as ignoring the unending nature of the Deep Roads trip. They were all like this. The worst thing you could do was to convince yourself you knew where you were going. It would just guarantee getting lost, not to mention getting your hopes up just to have them crushed. Darkspawn were good for that. What he couldn’t ignore was the fact that there were Grey Wardens nearby. He could feel them, the taint they carried subtly different than a ghoul or darkspawn. Once they were close enough to reach them if they so chose, he would have to say something about Bethany. She’d been tainted when the hurlock had knocked her down. Even though she’d been trying to cover the symptoms, it couldn’t be hidden from Anders. 

Ever since he’d first noticed, he’d been tracking the progression of the taint within her body, amazed at how slowly it’d advanced. For most people, it would’ve required intervention within a day at most. With her, the taint’s pace was like that of a snail. If he could locate some Grey Wardens, she’d have another option. He kept Bethany’s illness to himself, either until he found the Wardens and had a second option, or until the taint took too much of her, and they had no other choice remaining but death. So he’d taken to paying closer attention to what he could sense of the taint beyond darkspawn, in the hopes that they’d find some Grey Wardens. From how her body had reacted thus far, Bethany stood a good chance of surviving the Joining, which was a far better alternative than turning into a ghoul, or having to ask one of them, most likely Marian, to end it for her.

He didn’t look forward to that conversation.


	21. Chapter 21

“But that aside, the union of Calenhad’s peerless honor and Aldenon’s ingenuity overcame every obstacle set before them. Rivals turned into friends, treacheries were uncovered, and impossible battles won. But as we turned to Teyrn Simeon, no one rested easy. Teyrn Simeon’s host outnumbered us many times over. He controlled the holy city of Denerim. Many great and terrible warriors had sworn him fealty.” ****

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

****The spatter of rain against the glazed glass in the window woke him up the next morning. Malcolm rolled to his stomach and got as far under the covers as possible in order to escape the clinging damp cold carried by the rain. While he didn’t welcome the intrusion of cold, he did rather like the earthy smell, reminding him almost of autumn. Then he realized he’d far too easily gotten hold of all the covers and there were no other warm bodies in the bed. He opened one eye and found himself alone.

His first thought was to wonder what he’d done—nothing, for once. His second was panic that Líadan had gotten sick and he’d somehow slept through it. Then he remembered her mentioning something right as he was falling asleep about helping the Ra’asiel today, starting early. Apparently, very early. 

It felt strange without her there, more than he would’ve thought possible. Also, it felt cold, yet the bed was no longer inviting. He flung the covers off and swung his feet to the floor. The cold settled into the stone made him hop around and curse as he tried to get over to the basin the dwarves had installed. The fantastically awesome basin with runes that would magically bestow upon him the gift of hot, fresh water any time he wanted, like right now.

And it was _wonderful_. 

When he finally stepped out of the bedroom door, he was far cheerier than anyone had a right to be on such a dreary day. Some of the cheer waned when he noticed the dogs not lounging in front of either of the two doors. He guessed Gunnar and Revas had gone with Líadan, and if both dogs went, it meant Nuala and Cáel had gone as well. Nuala had mentioned wanting to spend as much time at the Dalish camp as she could while the Ra’asiel were still there before the Divine arrived tomorrow.

His good cheer completely guttered out.

It didn’t much improve, even with breakfast. Líadan’s absence was putting him entirely out of sorts, mostly because he couldn’t get it out of his head that they would be bonding that night, and he had no idea how it all worked in this particular clan. Of course, Líadan and her fellow hunters hadn’t been forthcoming with information in the least. No helping the poor shemlen out at all. Just let him wonder and wonder and then pretend part of the ceremony involved running naked under a full moon.

That _might_ have been the theme in his dreams last night. And a good one, too.

A firm hand grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of his seat. “You’re lucky I was done eating,” Malcolm told Fergus. “Or I would’ve stabbed you with my fork.”

“I did wait until there wasn’t food either on your plate or within your reach,” said Fergus.

“Out of curiosity, where I am being dragged?” It was almost like Fergus knew about the bonding and wanted to have a little chat about it. But Malcolm didn’t remember drinking the night before, and only heavy drinking—and probably some sort of potion—would have made him tell. So he really had no idea why his brother was insisting on dragging him to wherever it was.

“Outside. Impromptu meeting about accommodations for the Divine tomorrow.”

“It’s raining out there, in case you haven’t noticed. Why are we having the meeting outside when we’ve a perfectly good roof over our heads inside?”

“Voldrik has something to show us.” Fergus kept one of his hands clamped on Malcolm’s arm as they made their way through the main entrance and into the rainy yard.

“You mean Voldrik has something to show _you_ , since you’re the teyrn. I’d like to stay inside where it’s dry, thank you very much.” But the hand on Malcolm’s arm prevented him from waltzing back into the warm keep. He used his unencumbered arm and hand to pull up the hood of his cloak as he grumbled at his brother’s foresight. Meanwhile, the drumming of heavy rain accompanied them as they moved forward.

“You didn’t look like you had anything better to do today. We wouldn’t want you becoming shiftless and get up to no good. And, who knows, maybe you’ll even come up with an idea about what in the blazes we’re going to do with the Divine.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Fergus ignored the implied blasphemy. “We’re seriously screwed if it keeps raining like this. The rain is going to saturate the fields by midday if this keeps up. And you know what that means?”

“Ferventis showers bring Solace flowers?”

“This is Ferelden, not Orlais.”

“Oh. Oh, you mean Fereldan flowers. Mud!”

Standing in the middle of the yard with Alistair and Teyrna Cauthrien, Anora looked up from her contemplation of her shoes. Or the mud. They were both equally as likely. “The Divine is visiting Ferelden. The Divine also happens to be Orlesian and has perpetuated the stereotype of Ferelden more than once. Therefore, she should expect mud.”

“Slinging?” asked Malcolm.

“Not when it’s truth told,” said Cauthrien.

Malcolm decided he liked Cauthrien more and more every day.

Alistair looked between the rest of them, raising an unsure eyebrow. “So, let me get this straight. Are we trying to start or stop a diplomatic incident? Because I’m getting really confused.”

“Avoiding,” said Anora, seeming vexed by the mere presence of the rain. She nodded at Voldrik as he approached. “Tell me you have good news.”

Voldrik peered up at her, rain coursing through the braids of his beard. “Do you like being lied to?”

“Of course not.” Anora now seemed vexed by Voldrik _and_ the rain. 

Malcolm shot a concerned look at Alistair, wondering how long the list of things that vexed Anora was going to get today. Alistair indicated that his brother should not bring it up with her, lest he risk death. At least, that’s what Malcolm assumed it was what Alistair’s frantic head shaking was on about. 

“Well, then I’ve news, and it isn’t good,” Voldrik said as he motioned for them to follow. “We’d just finished with clearing out the foundations when the rain hit. And, well, you can see for yourselves.” Voldrik pointed at the site of the razed annex, which now held a small lake instead of rubble or resumed construction.

“Odd shape for a moat,” said Alistair. “Also, not where you’d usually find one.”

“Strategically, a moat should be outside the curtain wall of a castle,” said Fergus. “Otherwise, it will confuse invaders rather than provide an obstacle to their invasion.”

“I assume it’s unusable for a tent site?” asked Anora.

“Unless the people you want to put there are exceptionally good swimmers, I doubt it,” said Malcolm.

“I’ve heard Highever has many good swimmers,” said Cauthrien.

Anora shot Cauthrien a betrayed look. “Must you start speaking like the three of them as well? It’s difficult enough as it is with how flippant they can be.”

“It’s called gallows humor,” said Alistair. “It’s practically an epidemic around here.”

“Alistair.” Anora sounded nearly pleading, the edge of her patience fraying. “If you could please refrain from...” She sighed, her fingers idly adjusting her hood as she surveyed the water-filled foundation pits, the churned mud around them, and the rain that gave no sign of lessening. “I’m going inside to speak with Seneschal Robert about the arrangements. There’s no need for us to be standing in the rain. Fergus, if you could come with me, since this is your estate, after all.” Without waiting for confirmation, Anora spun on her heel and strode purposefully toward the keep.

Fergus gave the others a slight shrug and followed, while Alistair stared after Anora’s retreating form. Malcolm was reminded of the Anora they’d known at the end of the Blight. Maybe she was getting ready to face the Divine or something; he couldn’t be sure. Sure was touchy, though.

“What’s with her?” asked Alistair after the keep’s doors had closed behind Fergus and Anora.

Cauthrien’s lips quirked in amusement. “How would we know? She’s your wife, Your Majesty.”

“No idea,” said Malcolm, happy that he could avoid Anora in this kind of mood, “but you should probably go after her. Also, try not to be yourself. I think that’s what she wanted to tell you, but she’s too polite to say so out loud in mixed company.”

Voldrik nodded. “He’s right. When my wife acts like that, it’s usually something I’ve done. Even if you don’t know it. Eventually it’ll come out. Any rate, you should go, or it’ll just be worse later. I’ve been married going on twenty years. I know these things.”

Alistair didn’t seem convinced that he wasn’t walking to his own execution, but sighed and trudged for the castle. Voldrik turned to the two humans left standing outside. “Well? Anything I should do with this area?”

“I assume you’ll drain it?” asked Cauthrien.

“Aye. We just have to wait for the infernal rain to stop before we’ll bother starting the draining process. That’ll take a day or two to complete, plus waiting for it to dry out. Honestly, the best draining right now is out where that battle of yours was. Way the low hill’s shaped, that’ll be the least muddy area for miles. Might have to set your tents up there.”

Malcolm balked. “That would be more than a bit like camping out in a tomb. Something I’ve done before, and not by choice. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Deep Roads?” asked Voldrik. After Malcolm nodded, Voldrik inquired as to where.

“Bownammar. Past the Dead Trenches. Not fun.” Malcolm shuddered, remembering the broodmother, and then looked around him, trying to forget the mental and physical darkness of the Deep Roads. Down there, it couldn’t rain or snow or be warmed by the sun. Miserable as the weather was, at least he had weather up here. “I think we’ll have to try to pack everyone in the castle. I’m not asking or making anyone sleep on a recently used battlefield. The rain will wash away the actual blood, but the metaphorical blood, the memories, and probably a not-quite-as-thick Veil will still be there. Not a place I’d like sleep and visit the Fade around.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” said Voldrik. “The drum towers might be a solution. Wonder why I didn’t think of that before.” He walked away, toward the defense walls and their towers while continuing to mutter to himself.

Which left Malcolm and Cauthrien in the ruins. On hearing Cauthrien breathing calmly near him, Malcolm had a distinct realization: he had never been alone with her. Ever. Not that he didn’t trust her or thought ill of her. In fact, he was very much an admirer, especially at how well she could marshal the army. What bothered him was that he didn’t know what she thought of him or Alistair after all that’d happened during the Blight. While Malcolm didn’t think he needed the approval of everyone ever, he really didn’t particularly like not being liked, or even not knowing where he stood with someone. But Cauthrien had been Loghain’s lieutenant, his protege, and she’d stuck by him almost up until the end. There were rumors, of course. Rumors that she’d been Loghain’s lover, which went very much against the other rumor, that she was his illegitimate daughter. Malcolm much preferred to believe the latter, mostly because he never wanted to think of Loghain in the way he’d have to think of him should the former have been true.

Malcolm shuffled his feet, the mud squelching under his boots. “Did you hate us?” he asked.

“Pardon?” She’d been startled by the question, yet had trained for so long as a soldier that she revealed only the slightest twitch in her expression. 

“During the Blight. After the Blight. Now, even. I just realized, we’ve never really talked about it.”

“And you wish to discuss it in the rain?”

“You saw the state Anora was in. Would _you_ want to go inside and run the risk of bumping into her right now?”

The smile tugged at her lips again. “When you put it that way, no. No, I wouldn’t. And to answer your question, no. I did not nor do I hate you. Neither did Loghain, in case you were wondering.”

He did a double take. “Could have fooled me. Well, he actually did fool me, so there you go.”

“He often mentioned his belief, near the end, that Maric’s line would turn out well, after all. Had he come to that conclusion sooner, things might have turned out quite differently. But he realized too late that you and Alistair were not Cailan, and he had committed too much to his course to stop.”

“Unfortunate.” And it was. If only Loghain had recognized his paranoia for what it was, or forced Cailan to remain in the rear of the army, or waited to face the darkspawn horde, or not instigated the civil war that followed Ostagar, things would have been very different. Malcolm wasn’t quite so sure if anything would be better, but the differences were so vast that he had a hard time deciding. 

“It was. Ferelden lost a hero, a patriot, and her greatest general—Ostagar notwithstanding—to his own paranoid madness. I had inklings of it, small doubts. Yet I owed him everything, and so I could not betray him, even as he did terrible things. Without him, there would be no freedom from Orlais or even a Ferelden to defend, yet he nearly betrayed everything he once loved out of his hatred. It was difficult to witness, and I will not stand by and allow something like that to ever happen again.”

“Were you... did you attend the execution?”

She nodded, her eyes focusing on a ruined wall, yet her mind somewhere else entirely. “I did. I owed him that much.”

“He died well. Like a hero. I hope we can continue to preserve the Ferelden he loved.” Then Malcolm chuckled. “I bet those templars who marched on us would’ve given pause if Loghain had still been alive.”

She shared in his laugh, yet a bit more quietly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Orlais underestimated Ferelden, like they always do. Loghain was not our only strength. The Blight and the civil war showed us that. Our country may bicker and fight like siblings in a contentious family, but we are, by and large, doggedly loyal. An outside threat bands us together, and we fend off the invaders. Then we fall back to fighting each other. Maybe it’s just our way of staying prepared for the next invasion.” She cleared her throat, and as she adjusted the hood of her cloak, she quickly dabbed at her eyes. 

Malcolm pretended not to notice. It was only polite. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get out of this rain,” he said, resisting the urge to ask her what her relationship to Loghain had been. The curiosity was killing him, but this would be a particularly inopportune time to ask.

Cauthrien nodded, and they headed inside. Once there, the teyrn of Gwaren excused herself. Malcolm paced around the busy main hall, needing something to do to distract himself from what would happen later that night. New servants said nothing about his tracking mud on the stone floor, only giving him dirty looks when they thought he couldn’t see them. Eventually, a servant who’d survived Rendon Howe’s attack, and had known Malcolm since he was a small boy, chased him out of the hall. Not wanting so run into Anora, and fearing he’d spill to Fergus and Alistair—especially if they noticed how out of it he was—if he ran into them, he went back outside, despite the rain. Maybe he could help the Dalish. Physical work would be constructive, and would keep him from getting fidgety. 

It felt strange to approach the camp without Líadan next to him, but the hunters posted as guards at the entrance merely nodded when they saw him, allowing him to pass without issue. One said hello in the common tongue, while the other greeted him in Elvish. Malcolm waved at them both before continuing into the camp. 

Like a military camp being struck before a march, the Dalish camp was organized chaos. Aravels had been circled instead of the more haphazard formation from before. Most of the firepits had been extinguished, buried, and it looked like even covered with sod. There were still a few burning in the central area of the camp, but that was it. He noticed that the statues of the Creators remained, including Fen’Harel’s rather frightening visage. An empty aravel waited next to the halla pen and the statue of Ghilan’nain. Children ran to and fro on various errands, often carrying baskets covered with cloth. Since it was nearing midday—not that one could tell from the dark clouds—he saw some of the Dalish around one of the fires, looking to be preparing a simple, yet plentiful meal. And whatever it was, it smelled wonderful. 

Ariane, who’d been striding quickly across the camp, stopped when she saw him. “Are you looking for Líadan?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he said. “More like looking for something to do and not wanting to hang around the castle because my brothers can be persuasive. I keep thinking, any second and I’ll start acting weird because I’ll remember what tonight is.”

“You do seem a bit out of sorts. Enough so that you visited the camp on your own instead of making sure to have Líadan with you.” Ariane seemed amused, and not irritated. “I’m sure we can put you to work. What are you good at?”

He frowned and picked at the back of his hood. “Killing darkspawn.”

When he failed to list anything else, she said, “And...”

“Catching on fire. Sailing. Following directions. Well, sometimes. I try? I do try.”

She sighed. “Not so sure anymore about the work. Maybe—” Her words came to a halt when two mabari came charging at a full sprint from between the aravels.

Gunnar managed to alter his course just in time, narrowly missing his master. Revas didn’t bother with niceties, instead barreling straight into the human’s midsection, sending him skidding on his back through the thick mud. Gunnar let out a whuff that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, Ariane did nothing to hide her own laughter, and Revas stood on top of Malcolm in a triumphant, conquering pose. “Off me, dog,” said Malcolm, pushing at Revas’ heavy legs. “Seriously, off.” For some reason, Revas refused to move. Gunnar barked at her, and she returned it, yet stayed put.

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably, cold mud having seeped into his smalls while he slid. He allowed his head to drop back into the mud with a wet splat. “Awesome.” Familiar laughter motivated him to lift his head again, and he peered up at Líadan, who was no less amused than Ariane. “Your dog has atrocious manners,” he said to her.

Líadan arched an eyebrow. “Really? She isn’t just—what’s the term you use for Gunnar?—aggressively friendly?”

“Not when an effusive greeting ends with mud in uncomfortable places.” He rolled in an attempt to shove the mabari off him. Revas bounded to the side, but then jumped and sat on Malcolm’s back before he could scramble to his feet. He sighed. Now his backside _and_ his front were saturated. Out of ideas, he cast a look over at his own mabari as he let his cheek rest in the mud. “Help me out here.”

Gunnar’s reply was to sit on a nearby patch of grass.

“Mud in uncomfortable places?” asked Líadan. “Last I checked, mud tends to be fairly soothing. Hard to think of an uncomfortable place.”

“Smalls,” Malcolm said rather quietly.

“What was that?” asked Ariane.

Malcolm drew his arms and legs under his body as much as he could, braced himself, took a deep breath, and heaved the mabari off him. Then he leapt up before the dog could react. “Smallclothes,” he said in a mutter as he made a futile effort to wipe the mud from his clothes. He needed to wear armor more often, even as heavy and uncomfortable as it could be. Armor would’ve kept more of the mud out. “Mud in my smallclothes. I’d tell you to try it, but I think Oisín would take exception for a remark like that and probably set me on fire.” He looked up at the sky, the rain washing the mud from his face in haphazard streaks. “Upside would be the rain dousing the fire quickly.”

“I can’t... I can’t even...” Ariane gave up and walked away, poorly covering her giggles.

“Did you come down to help?” asked Líadan.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Malcolm, feeling a bit perturbed at the outcome. “Revas changed those plans.” He glared at the dog in question, who wasn’t affected by it. He gave up on trying to get clean by using his already dirty hands and returned his look to Líadan. “Also, this rain? Entirely your fault.”

She blinked, her lovely green eyes in her nicely mud-free face illustrating how puzzled she was. “What? Why? Since when do I have control of the weather? If it’s anyone’s realm, my bet is on Flemeth.”

“You mentioned the lack of rain yesterday. And now here it is, raining.” Her clothes—armor, he noticed, though her leathers were far more comfortable than the chainmail he used—were quite clean. A bit sodden, considering she’d been working outside, but very clean. He decided he should change that very soon. Wasn’t fair, otherwise.

“If that actually worked with any degree of reliability, drought would never exist.” She motioned around them at the falling rain. “And I think it’s appropriate for today.”

“You do? Care to add some lightning? Make it a real storm?”

Her body tensed slightly, wary of his intent. “Why would I need to do that?”

Before she could move out of his reach, he threw his arms around her and lifted her up in a hug, even adding a little spin to make sure the mud spread before returning her feet to the ground. Then when she opened her mouth to yell at him—because he did deserve to be yelled at after that, he’d be the first to admit—he kissed her, knowing full well some of the mud on his cheeks would end up on hers. Also that it would delay the yelling. Laughter threatened to well up and out of his chest when he felt her returning the kiss despite her apparent outrage. This was turning out to be more fun than he’d originally thought. He cupped her jaw as he urged the kiss onward as far as he could before she recovered her senses and most likely killed him. There was also the added benefit of more mud from his hands now on her ears and in her hair because he’d pushed her hood down on his way to her face. Instead of killing him straight away like he’d assumed, she responded to his cues, moving her hands to grasp behind his neck and pull him downward and closer.

Not what he’d predicted when he’d started, but he decided to roll with it.

Right before he found himself flipped onto his back in the mud yet again. Revas bolted over from where she’d been lolling in more mud, and then flopped her heavy body onto Malcolm’s, effectively pinning him once more. Líadan loomed over him, and he supposed had she not had smears of mud across her nose and on her left cheek, she might have looked intimidating. However, she did have said mud streaks, and they downgraded her appearance to somewhere in the vicinity of adorable. 

“You, I—” She cut herself off out of frustration and ran her fingers through her hair, spreading more mud in it as she did. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

He grinned up at her, as if that were answer enough.

It was.

“Go,” she said, waving for Revas to let him up. “You need to find someone else to annoy. My killing or maiming you would not be conducive to our plans. So, off you go.”

He stopped and studied her before he turned to leave. One of his fingers reached out and gently traced the skin above her right cheekbone. “There,” he said.

“What?”

“Now your mud streaks are symmetrical. It was bothering me.”

“It was—all right, out. Out out out.”

Her barely formed words of outrage chased him from the camp, even as he struggled to contain his mirth.

“Still going to bond with him?” he heard Panowen ask Líadan as he walked away, the squelching with each step doing nothing to help cover his chuckles. Líadan’s reply was a frustrated growl, and his chuckles turned into a full on laugh. Oh, he’d pay for it later, but... worth it. 

He headed for the garden and the postern entrance behind it, wanting to continue avoiding Alistair and Fergus. Particularly Fergus, because the man had some sort of sixth sense about when Malcolm was up to something. The man was practically prescient. After passing the last stone bench, he turned the corner toward the back entrance, where Fergus sat on the stone steps in front of the door.

On seeing his younger foster brother, the teyrn stood up and waited in the middle of the path. “There you are,” he said.

“And here I am,” said Malcolm. Prescient. He knew it. The Chantry should know about this. Had to be magic. _Evil_ magic.

Fergus studied him for a moment, as if sizing him up. “You’re hiding something.”

 _Deflect. Must deflect._ “Yes, I am. Mud in my smalls.” He attempted to nonchalantly walk past Fergus on the slight chance his response had thrown his brother off-guard. “Now, if you could just shift over a bit so I could slide past you—”

Fergus didn’t move an inch, but he did draw his head back in surprise. “Mud in your... you know what? Nevermind that answer. You’re hiding something else.”

“Pretty sure I’ve got mud in places where nothing should be hiding. Really uncomfortable, especially since it’s starting to dry, and that makes it itchy. So, once again, if you’d just shove over, I could go inside and wash myself off.”

“I’ll let you past once you answer my question.”

“But I did.” Malcolm continued not looking Fergus in the eye. Well, he did, for a few seconds, and then decided it would be better if he didn’t lest he just up and babble everything in a blubbery confession. “Told you about the mud. Did I mention it’s itchy?”

“You did. I’m not talking about the mud. You’re hiding something else, and I aim to find out what it is. I don’t like it when you’re hiding things. You aren’t very good at it, and it really doesn’t suit you.”

Malcolm acted indignant, blinking disbelievingly at Fergus. “How can you even say that? The Grey Wardens trust me with their secrets. I can hide things just fine, thank you very much.”

Fergus didn’t buy a copper of his act. “No, not really. Out with it.”

“Don’t you have a Divine to get ready to house?”

“Anora and Robert finally managed to figure everything out. So, no, nothing left on my list of things to do.”

“Making Her Perfection camp out with her prisoner of war templars, are you?”

“In the end, it seemed the best idea. Her Holiness should have a pavilion of her own for the trip to Denerim, so she can use that without hardship. Highever hasn’t the room between the dragon, the battle, and then this rain. If she complains, well, she’ll just be proving herself to be exactly what most we Fereldans think of her in the first place.” Fergus threw an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders, heedless of the mud, and walked him toward the garden. “But this isn’t about the Most Holy. This is about you and whatever it is you’re hiding.”

“I liked it better when we were talking about the Divine.” Malcolm tried to spin out from Fergus’ hold, but his brother merely tightened it instead of letting go. Right. Just like Fergus had done with the little enigma his brother presented: he’d latched on like a stubborn mabari. Malcolm knew from plenty of prior experience that Fergus wouldn’t let go until he heard an answer he liked. The longest Malcolm had lasted in one of these deadlocks had been three days, and he’d been six and had no responsibilities. No child and no beautiful woman who would be expecting his presence in a matter of hours had allowed him to hold out for that long in the face of Fergus’ relentless and continued torture. With Seneschal Robert tending to the rest of the preparations for the Divine’s stay, there was the distinct possibility Fergus would simply not leave his side until he had an answer. 

Malcolm seriously considered letting Fergus do exactly that until he figured things out on his own. He was bound to—especially if he stuck around until the actual bonding. Then again, he really wanted to get the mud out of his smalls, because he hadn’t been kidding about the itching.

“Sod the Divine,” said Fergus. “Stop trying to change the subject. Tell me what’s going on.” When Malcolm didn’t reply, instead looking up at the sky and the rain that had eased to a drizzle, Fergus sighed. “If you won’t give me a straight answer, I’m going to follow you around until you do. And I’ll even play a little guessing game while I do so. The longer you hold out on me, the more people who are going to start questioning you on what’s going on. I suspect that isn’t something you want happening, is it? No, I didn’t think so. As it stands, I’m the only one who’s noticed you’re behaving oddly. That luck is going to run out very quickly.”

Malcolm frowned at the garden. Then he scowled at various parts of the garden because doing so at Fergus would only prove his point even more. Maybe Líadan would appear and save him. Or Wynne. Or Hildur. But when he searched hopefully around them, he saw no one.

“Time to start guessing.” Fergus clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “All right. You already bonded with Líadan and haven’t told anyone.”

Close, but blessedly inaccurate. “No. That would be ridiculous.”

“I think it would be good for the both of you, _and_ for Ferelden, if we could just keep the Chantry out of it, but that’s me. Okay, so you haven’t bonded with her yet. Which means you’ll probably bond with her before Lanaya’s clan leaves, and that means tonight.” Fergus looked expectantly at Malcolm. “Well?”

Malcolm studied the flowers bathed in the sunlight breaking through the dissipating clouds. They were quite pretty, and also not Fergus. “Didn’t hear a guess in all those words.”

Fergus grumbled something under his breath. “I don’t need to guess. You’re bonding with Líadan tonight, in secret. I’m damn sure of it. Well, like it or not, I’m coming along. I don’t care if you think I shouldn’t because of the Chantry getting its smalls in a twist, but I don’t care. You’re the only family I’ve got left, and you’re doing pretty much the equivalent of getting married. I want to be there. Mother and Father would want it that way.”

“You’re bringing Mother and Father into it? That’s playing dirty.” Malcolm still didn’t risk making eye contact. He hadn’t outright confirmed anything.

“They would’ve loved her, you know, elf or not.”

“I know.” When he didn’t meet Fergus’ eyes this time, it was because his brother reminded him far too much of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, and his words had reminded him of the hole they’d left when they’d died. The hole had closed, little by little, but would never entirely be filled in.

Fergus put his arm back around Malcolm’s shoulders. “So, when and where? I’m going to be a witness. Don’t make me follow you around for the rest of the day, because you need a bath and I’d rather not hang around for that.”

Malcolm finally turned toward Fergus and saw the determination he knew he’d see there. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d personally rather not risk Mother and Father haunting me for the rest of my days should I miss your clandestine little bonding. And you know full well they would.”

“Cliffs when the moon’s at its zenith.”

Fergus let out a happy shout, but the mud covering Malcolm kept him safe from a hug. “Good. This is good. I wish Alistair could know, but the King knowing and a teyrn knowing are very different things. What does one wear to a bonding?”

“Líadan said armor. Trying to remember why...” Malcolm struggled to recall the reasoning behind the armor. Something to do with the elven gods. “Oh! Arms and armor are in honor of Mythal. I don’t have any other details, though. I’m as clueless as you.”

“Except I’m not very clueless at all, am I? More so you, who thought he could hide any of this from the person he grew up with. Yeah... no.” Fergus motioned toward the keep. “Come on, little brother. Let’s go make you presentable.”


	22. Chapter 22

“For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.” ****

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Malcolm**

****Throughout the rest of the day, heavy clouds swept in from the sea, threatening further rain, yet the threats remained empty. There was even enough of a break that the moon became dimly visible after night fell. Malcolm had caught sight of Líadan only briefly in the late afternoon, with her waving a quick hello before rushing back to the Dalish camp. Claiming he had some things to do to prepare, Fergus had left Malcolm to his bathing. But considering a bonding was nothing like a Chantry wedding, Malcolm couldn’t figure what Fergus really had to do. No matter. At least his brother had given up on dogging him the rest of the day.

And now he stood in the middle of his room, fussing with the last buckle of his cuirass, while the moon outside was perhaps an hour from zenith. He’d assumed Líadan would reappear before this, but he hadn’t seen her. Maybe she would just meet him there. She and the other Dalish had been rather fuzzy on the details of the entire ceremony, just enough to make him a tiny bit suspicious about what was to come.

A quiet sounded rap on the door, and then Fergus slipped into the room, a dark cloak swirling around his heavy chainmail. “Chainmail is not made for sneaking,” he said as he shut the door behind him, awkwardly juggling a large, almost flat, cloth-wrapped package.

“I was told that several times during the Blight,” said Malcolm, finished with the buckle and wondering what to do. It was too soon to head down to the cliffs, yet if he stood around and did nothing, he’d become... nervous? He had no idea what would make him nervous. It wasn’t like this would change anything about how he felt or his intentions. He’d planned on staying by her side for as long as he lived, and going through a bonding was just making it official in the eyes of at least the Dalish, probably their Creators, himself, Líadan, and whoever else knew about it, which wasn’t many. Not enough people, really. He wanted to have the entire Landsmeet, the court at Denerim, everyone to know about it. He wanted Eamon to leave it alone about a proper match, wanted the nobles to stop with their gossiping and shoving their daughters toward him. They only wanted the power they assumed accompanied being the spouse of a member of the royal family. He knew Fergus would be going through something similar quite soon, being second-only to royalty considering he was the highest-ranking teyrn in Ferelden after the King. 

“You’re woolgathering,” said Fergus, resting the end of the package on the top of his foot.

“I suppose.”

“Nervous?”

“No. Yes?” Malcolm turned to face him fully. “Not sure why I would be. It isn’t like anything’s changing, you know?”

Fergus gave him a warm smile, one that showed how much he knew what his brother was going through. “It is. Even if the Bannorn doesn’t know, or the Chantry, or many people at all, this will make your commitment to her permanent and official. It’s the last step, really, to truly making the two of you a full partnership in life. At least, that’s how I see it. If you’re nervous, you probably do as well. That, and you’ve no idea what this Dalish ceremony consists of, and that alone would make you jumpy. I wouldn’t put it past Líadan or Panowen or Lanaya to play a trick or two on you. Lovingly, of course, but still a trick.”

“Maker, I hope not. I mean, we did see a bonding back when we visited the Mahariel, but Líadan said they aren’t all the same. It depends on the participants, the clan, the witnesses, the occupations of the people bonding, and what gods they follow over the rest of the elven Creators.”

“In other words, anything can happen.”

“Pretty much.” Malcolm indicated the package Fergus held, seeking a change in subject before he got himself too worked up. “What’ve you got there?”

Fergus handed it to him. “Gift for you, on the occasion of your clandestine marriage.”

“They give gifts for those?”

“I do. I suspect Mother and Father would encourage it, if the match was good despite the nature of the wedding. Open it.”

After giving his brother a wary look, Malcolm set the package on the bed and unwrapped the cloth from it. It was a fine painting, one he’d not seen displayed around the castle in his memory. Quite a few works of art had survived Howe’s attack, since Howe hadn’t seen the value in looting art. “A painting?” he asked. “I’m not really a purveyor of fine art.” Sure, he appreciated it. He’d just never really considered himself a collector of any kind.

Fergus rolled his eyes. “It’s the Rebel Queen on the top of that chariot in the middle. You know, that grandmother of yours people keep insisting you look like. Maric gave that painting to Father some years ago, as a token for all he did during the Rebellion. I thought you might like to have it, considering your connection. And I think Father would have approved, as well.”

“Ah.” Malcolm did appreciate it, and especially appreciated the sentiment behind the gift, but he wasn’t sure what to do with it. It wasn’t like someone who’d led a primarily itinerant life for the past two years had a place to display such a work. “Where will I put it?”

“If you keep acting like this over it, your rear is starting to look like a good place.”

He blinked in surprise, realizing just how ungrateful he must’ve sounded for Fergus to respond like that. “That’s not—I’m not sure that’s even anatomically possible without doing some serious bodily harm. And I’m not saying I don’t like it! I do. I’m sorry if it seemed otherwise. I just don’t know where I’d hang it. I haven’t really had a home in a while.”

Fergus inclined his head in acknowledgment of the apology, and his acceptance of it. Then his look became thoughtful. “Hildur told me you were being assigned to the compound in Denerim for at least the next few years. Since you’re in charge, doesn’t that mean you get apartments of your own? Won’t it become your home then?”

“Oh, that’s true. I hadn’t thought of that. Not used to the idea of not being constantly on the move yet.” Malcolm gave Fergus a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry if I sounded like an ungrateful ass. I didn’t meant to, and I am grateful.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t stick your foot in your mouth at least once every hour.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“All right, once every two hours. Three, on good days.”

Not bothering to reply to the continued exaggeration, Malcolm re-wrapped the painting so it would be safe to bring with them to Denerim. Behind him, the door opened without anyone knocking, which meant it was Líadan. He turned to see her stepping through the doorway, confirming his assumption.

“Malcolm,” she said, not noticing their guest right away, “are you—” She stopped short, both in steps and in her question. “Fergus, what are you doing here?”

Fergus grinned. “I heard you were going to become my sister-in-law. Couldn’t miss out on seeing that. After all, I like you far more than my own brother.”

After how he’d reacted toward the gift Fergus had given him, Malcolm decided he couldn’t really put up much of an argument to the contrary at the moment.

Líadan frowned, but quickly directed the frown at Malcolm instead of Fergus. “You told him?”

“No. He guessed.”

Her frown remained. “Confirming his guess is the same as telling.”

He raised his hands in innocence. “He guilted me! And he’s prescient, I swear. Or he can read minds. Or both.” Malcolm turned his gaze to Fergus. “You should really watch that, you know. The Chantry catches wind of it and it’s off with you to the Circle, even if you aren’t a mage.”

“I’m neither of those things. I just know you since I’ve watched you grow up.” Fergus clapped Malcolm on the shoulder, and then pulled Líadan into a hug. “I wanted to see this,” he told her. “You’re family to me, just as much as Malcolm is, and I wanted to be a witness when it was made official. Don’t blame him for giving it away. No one else could tell aside from me.” Then he took a step away from her, his hands on her shoulders. Malcolm wondered if he saw the slight sheen of forming tears in Líadan’s eyes, but decided against it. “Now,” said Fergus, “like I had a gift for Malcolm, I have one for you.” He dropped his hands and rooted around in the pouch on his belt.

Líadan glanced over at Malcolm. “He gave you a gift? This is a human tradition?”

“Yes. Gifts for the bride and groom. For an official Chantry wedding, at least among the nobility, there’s generally a lot more. The family gifts are the more important ones, though. Far more meaningful.”

“An interesting similarity,” she said. 

“Got it,” said Fergus. Then he took Líadan’s hand, opened her fingers, and placed the item in her palm. 

It was a necklace Malcolm had seen Teyrna Eleanor wear on a few occasions. He’d asked about it a couple times, if only because the silver was in such an impossibly light, gossamer weave that it hadn’t looked like any kind of smith could have made it using normal smithy tools. Like it had with Eleanor’s eyes, the green gem at the clasp—though small and delicate on its own, was still the heaviest and largest part of the necklace—seemed to match Líadan’s green eyes. 

As Líadan studied it, turning it in her fingers, her expression became one of wonder as she noticed the impossibility of the fine workmanship. Then her brow furrowed in disbelief as she shot a questioning look up at Fergus. 

“It was our mother’s,” Fergus said in explanation, though Malcolm suspected that wasn’t the question she’d been wordlessly asking. “Father gave it to her as a betrothal gift because his mother still possessed the heirloom ring normally used for such occasions. And since Grandmother had worn the ring since the day she’d been given it, Father hadn’t wanted to ask it from her since Grandfather had died only a few months before. Instead, he used this necklace. It’s been in the Cousland family for generations, since the Black Age. Mather Cousland gave it to his wife Haelia when she left to help drive out the werewolves. Said it would provide her with protection, but never said how. Since I inherited the ring typically used for Cousland betrothals, this would have gone to Malcolm as the second son, even though he wasn’t of the line’s blood. So it’s appropriate, and right, that you should have it.”

“This is your family’s history,” said Líadan, clearly blinking away tears, and extending the necklace back to Fergus. “I can’t—”

Fergus closed her fingers over it. “Yes, you can. I meant it when I said you’re family now, and in just a little bit, it _will_ be official. And just because Malcolm hasn’t a drop of Cousland blood doesn’t make him any less a Cousland. Yes, he’s a Theirin, but he was raised by Couslands in Highever, like every Cousland before us. Mother and Father loved him as their own, and that never changed. They gave their lives for him. I think that’s a pretty good indication of how they felt.” He closed his large fingers over hers. “And they would have loved you, as well.”

She bit her bottom lip at the telltale quivering of her chin. Holding the necklace in one hand, she gave Fergus a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she said quietly, as if afraid to speak in a normal tone of voice.

“You’re entirely welcome, little sister,” said Fergus. He let go when she did, and then looked over at Malcolm. “And that’s how you properly thank someone for a gift, if you have manners.”

Líadan took the moment to collect herself, and then glanced out the window to check the height of the moon. “We should go soon.”

“I’ll leave first,” said Fergus. “We can’t exactly all just tramp out there together. Follow in a few minutes. I’ll meet you there.” Then he was out the door as quietly as his armor allowed.

Líadan’s gaze had dropped to the necklace in her opened hand. Malcolm watched her as she contemplated it again, and then moved forward. “Thoughtful of Fergus, wasn’t it?” he asked, carefully taking the necklace from her palm once he got close enough. Then he undid the clasp so he could put it on her. “He’s kind of awesome like that.”

“More than thoughtful,” she said. “You both had the same upbringing. Not sure how he ended up so eloquent and you ended up so... you.”

“I think that’s where the blood comes in. Bryce and Eleanor were both very well spoken. And, well, you’ve seen that Theirins usually aren’t unless we’re in the midst of some righteous anger.” He fit the clasp and closed it before gently turning the necklace around so the gem was in front. It settled just above where she had her Warden pendant on a leather thong. He let his fingers drift over her shoulders before dropping a kiss at the nape of her neck, smiling at the shiver it produced from her. 

“No time for that,” she said after giving him a warm smile over her shoulder. Then she lifted his hands and ducked out of his reach as she turned to face him. “I have something for you.”

“Did it suddenly become Satinalia when I wasn’t looking?”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you talking about that solstice holiday you humans have where you name some fool the ruler of the town, throw ridiculous feasts, and give each other gifts?”

“That’s the one.”

“Then, no. Not the solstice, summer or winter. This is part of the Dalish bonding tradition. You gave me a gift that you helped create, and I give you one, as well.”

He wondered what it could be, considering Líadan had been a hunter with her clan, and he recalled hunters traditionally gave pelts to their intended. Fenarel had done just that with Líadan, though he’d chosen the most traditional route of all by going through Marethari first. However, Malcolm didn’t think she’d been out hunting that day, and would’ve noticed her carrying a pelt of any sort, unless it was something incredibly small—and from what they’d gone through with Cammen, he knew small didn’t count. “I don’t see how you could be hiding a pelt.”

She tossed him a look of frustration before fiddling with something in her fingers that he hadn’t noticed earlier. “You wouldn’t have much use for a pelt. The gifts are supposed to be both meaningful and useful, in addition to the giver having helped create it.”

“I’m going to shut up before I inadvertently insult your people.”

“Wise choice.” She took his hand and brought it up so it was palm up between them, and then deposited a silver ring on it, much as Fergus had given her the necklace. “Here.”

He raised his eyebrows in admiration as he took another look, revising his first observation of it being silver. It seemed silver, yet as the light shifted from lamps guttering in the drafty room, the ring almost shimmered with blue and green, as if the colors were part of the material. Inlaid into the ring was an etched pattern he couldn’t quite identify, but he knew he’d seen it before in the Dalish camp. And knowing the Dalish, most likely every bit of the masterfully crafted ring was symbolic in some way. Yet he still had difficulty remaining serious. “I didn’t know you were a silversmith.”

Another look of frustration, even as the corner of her mouth twitched in want of a smile. “I’m not. Not by any means. The clan and I found that out when I wasn’t even eight years old. For a week that summer, the children around my age were all given chances to work in the various crafts to see if we had any latent talents. I... did not. Master Ilen was quite upset at how much ironbark I wasted. He only forgave me when I brought him some I’d found during a hunt.” She sighed, but the warmth in her eyes told him the memory was a fond one. “Anyway, no, I didn’t forge it. That was Wade’s doing. I did, however, design most of its elements, as well as give him the design engraved on it.”

“What’s it mean?”

She placed one of her hands under his that held the ring, and used her free hand to point at the design. “That’s the symbol we use for Sylaise. We associate her with home, hearth, and peace. The coloring in the silver signifies the—”

“Light of Mythal. I remember, from the altar on Sundermount,” said Malcolm.

The smile she gave him was brilliant, expressing her delight that he’d remembered something so important to her people. “Yes. And the light would be asking for Mythal’s protection even as the symbol for Sylaise asks for home and peace.” She picked up the ring with her thumb and index finger, angling it so he could see the inside, where there was an inscription he’d missed earlier. “And this is a line from the _Vir Atish’an_ , the recounting of Sylaise’s charge.” Her eyes looked at him, almost expectantly, as if waiting for him to read it on his own, which he was capable of, even though it was in Elvish.

It took him longer than he’d have liked to parse it out, but his ability to read Elvish far exceeded his almost inability to speak it, try as he might. “ _Vir Vhenan_ ,” he said, hoping he hadn’t mangled the pronunciation. “The way of...” The meaning of the last word eluded him, dashing about at the edges of his mind.

“The heart,” Líadan said, placing her free hand on his chest. “It’s the middle verse. As the spirit keeps, so must you. In loving, find compassion; in purpose, find life.” She shook her head once, as if jostling herself from the deep emotions the verse had elicited. “Since you gave me a gift of mostly _elvhen_ make, I had Wade help me instead of Master Varathorn, so that I could give you a gift of mostly human make. A balance, if you will. I suppose sort of like we are.”

“Thank you,” he said, making sure to catch and hold her gaze so she could see what the gift, her words, and everything that went into them really meant to him.

She held it for only an instant before the emotions made her eyes skitter away, like when they’d spoken of his proposal and their impending child on the cliffs. He wasn’t hurt by it; he understood completely. “I know you can’t wear it properly,” she said, “but this is what I wanted to give you. You can wear it next to your Warden pendant.”

Like he wanted to tell everyone possible that he was bonding with her, he very much wanted to wear the ring she’d given him. Yet, he couldn’t, not until everything was sorted out, from Chantry approval to getting Líadan to accept the Chantry’s minimal involvement. “I will.” He reached behind his neck and untied the leather thong to do so. Morrigan’s ring clinked against the Warden pendant, and he removed that ring from the thong. “And I think you were supposed to wear this one,” he said, handing it to her.

With the rings safely nestled against the Warden pendants, Malcolm realized they now had nothing to distract them from speaking about what would be happening very, very soon. “Just so you know, had we just exchanged rings like that in a chantry, we’d pretty much be married.”

Líadan didn’t seem terribly thrilled at hearing about the Chantry. “Without one of your Revered Mothers or priests to solemnize the event?”

“That’s why I said ‘pretty much’ and not ‘officially.’” Then he realized he shouldn’t have brought up the Chantry at _all_ , because her expression had darkened at their mention, and had continued darkening. “Anyway,” he said, doing his best to sound cheerful, “I found some woad.”

She arched an eyebrow, playfulness replacing the darkness, she as eager as he to be rid of it. “Did you?”

“Yep.” He grinned and motioned toward his body. “Under this armor? All blue.”

“Really?” Líadan snaked out a hand to tug at the neck of his chainmail and the gambeson underneath for a peek.

He fended her off. “Nope. No peeking until after the ceremony.”

“What, then you’ll strip naked and streak back to the keep?”

“Only if it’s a dare.” Then he realized just what he’d said and held up his hands. “Not a dare! Don’t make it a dare!”

“You’re lucky we need to leave right this second, or I’d be daring you.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the door. “Come on. While being late to our own ceremony would be very much us, I don’t think the others would appreciate it.”

“I’m not sure,” said Malcolm as he followed her without resistance. “I think they’d be able to appreciate the consistency.”

“Maybe.”

They slipped through the postern entrance and through the garden at almost a dash, tempered only by the need to keep as quiet as possible. The cliffs came into view, and the silhouettes of the others already gathered there became visible. Líadan slowed to a walk, her steps changing from enthusiastic to reluctant. Malcolm looked at her in alarm, afraid she had second thoughts. Or third thoughts or beyond, considering how much trouble the decision had caused her. However, the determination hadn’t left the set of her jaw, even as her eyes had become pensive.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, keeping to a whisper, though they were far out of earshot of the guards along the walls.

She hesitated for only a moment before answering. “I miss my parents. I wish they could be here.”

Malcolm could understand. He could easily see the warmth and the smiles Bryce and Eleanor would have had were they here, and he was willing to bet even Fiona would have smiled with the same kind warmth. Yet from how troubled Líadan had been, he hadn’t thought she would have expected or wanted her parents to be here, even if they had been alive and still with the Mahariel clan. “But I’m human. As much as you’ve come around to being okay with that, and how accepting the Ra’asiel are, I’m not so sure your father wouldn’t come after me with that deadly accurate spear of his.” _Especially_ if the man had found out Malcolm’s role in his unbonded daughter being with child, if his temper was near anything like what Líadan’s could be.

“He would have come around,” she said, the memory of her father washing away her pensiveness. “I remember the most important thing to him, and to my mother, was that I was happy and healthy. The Wardens allowed me to live, and you’re usually pretty good at making me happy. And since my clan is the Grey Wardens, and I would not be facing exile for this, you would be mostly safe.”

“Mostly?”

She laughed softly. “He still would have threatened to separate you from your manhood if you ever hurt me.”

He shrugged, partly amused at the idea, and at how Líadan seemed both annoyed and loving at her father’s protectiveness. “Well, he _was_ your father. He has that right.” Then his amusement waned, thinking of how much danger his manhood would be in if her father had known about more than just the bonding. “What about—”

“That, I’m not sure about,” she said, cutting him off before he could ask the entire question out loud. “So I’m keeping my thoughts on the bonding instead of on uncertain things.”

“Excellent idea.” He nodded in both resolution and agreement. “I believe I’ll do the same.”

Two canine forms raced abreast of one another from the edge of the cliffs. Once they reached the human and the elf, they ran circles around them, herding them toward where the ceremony would be. In illustration of mabari intelligence, they did not utter a single bark. There were, however, several low growls when their people did not move quickly enough to suit them. When they were close enough to discern faces, Malcolm saw that Keeper Lanaya stood with her back to the cliff, and spoke in quiet tones with Fergus and Wynne. Panowen and Ariane were off to the side with Hildur and Nuala. The Dalish had given Nuala a few of the slings they used to carry their infants, and she carried Cáel in one, with the child most likely fast asleep. Malcolm hoped, anyway, since it was incredibly late. An angry, awake, and most likely screaming baby would certainly bring unwanted attention to their little gathering.

Lanaya smiled when she saw them approach. Malcolm cautiously returned the smile, the trepidation at not knowing the details of the ceremony returning. Behind the Keeper, he noticed storm clouds towering over the Waking Sea and rushing for the shore. More rain _would_ be their luck. 

“Is there a reason for you to be nervous?” Lanaya asked when they were within safe talking distance. If their voices carried at all, the crashing of the waves on the rocks below would cover them.

Malcolm threw a faintly accusatory look at Panowen and Ariane. “Some people, who shall remain nameless, enjoy messing with my head.”

Panowen shrugged at Lanaya’s questioning eyebrow. “If he didn’t fall for it so easily, it wouldn’t be such fun sport.”

“She has a point,” said Líadan. 

“She usually does,” said Malcolm, who then returned his attention to the Keeper. “I’m not nervous for other reasons, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Lanaya looked between them both. “It is still your intention to bond?”

“Yes,” they answered.

She nodded. “Good. Then we should begin so that the approaching rain does not catch us.” Lanaya indicated where they should stand, and for the witnesses to form a semicircle behind them. The Keeper stood in front, nodded and smiled at them all, and then went straight into a prayer to the Creators. She asked for the blessings of all the Creators, and then asked for special blessings from Mythal and Sylaise, as they were always called upon for bonding ceremonies. She bowed her head in silence for a moment after the prayers were completed before looking both Malcolm and Líadan in the eyes. “Please face your intended fully and join both hands,” she said. “Left with left and right with right.”

They did so, and Malcolm couldn’t pretend the shaky breath he released had nothing to do with the stark truth of beginning the bonding. Yet Líadan’s grip was strong in his, her sureness settling him, and his grip soon matched hers.

Lanaya unwrapped a single strand of thread from a loop on her wrist and held it up. “I will explain this tradition for those present who are not of the Dalish. Sylaise, the sister of Andruil, preferred to stay by her home-tree, occupying herself with gentle arts and song while her sister Andruil ran with the creatures of the wild. It was Sylaise who showed us how to heal with herbs and magic and it was Sylaise who showed us how to spin the fibers of plants into thread and rope. In asking for the blessing and presence of Sylaise, we use a single thread of elfroot fibers, to symbolize both the healing she taught us as well as the crafting of rope. Using this thread, we tie together the left hands of the couple who wish to bond, directly binding the blessings of Sylaise with their declaration.”

As Lanaya deftly tied their left hands together, Malcolm quietly asked, “Why the left?”

“The left hand is viewed as the hand of peace,” said Líadan.

“Oh.” He thought he’d understood, and vocalized as such, and then realized he wasn’t quite there. “Why’s that?”

“Not many are left handed,” said Lanaya. “So the right is traditionally viewed as the hand with which one shoots arrows. Andruil’s hand.”

He was afraid to ask what they’d be doing with their right hands. Hopefully it wouldn’t involve arrows or having to shoot them with any sort of accuracy.

Lanaya, finished with her knot, fetched the string looped around her wrist, and Malcolm noticed that it was a bowstring. She held it aloft, just as she’d done with the thread. “Because Líadan is a hunter, we use a symbol of Andruil—a bowstring crafted of sinew—to bind their right hands.”

Malcolm watched Lanaya wrap the string around their right hands and knot it tightly, having entirely forgotten how literal a bonding ceremony could be. Her knots finished, Lanaya took a step back. Then she asked, “Do you declare yourselves to be a bonded couple in the eyes of the Creators and all present this night?”

“Yes,” they said at the same time, neither of them hesitating.

“Then so you shall be,” said Lanaya. She conjured a dim, blue flame on her fingers. “Sylaise the Hearthkeeper also bestowed upon us the gift of fire and how to use it. We now burn the thread and the bowstring to signify that this couple need no more outward signs of their bond. They have declared what they are, the Creators, the clan, family, and friends have given witness, and thus, they are bonded.”

Malcolm’s eyes flicked nervous back and forth between his and Líadan’s hands and the fire formed in Lanaya’s hand. There hadn’t been fire at Gheyna and Cammen’s bonding. He would’ve remembered that very distinctly. Granted, he truly would walk through fire for Líadan, but he hadn’t expected to be subjected to it so soon. He steeled himself for the burning sensation as Lanaya touched the fire to the string and thread almost at the same time, but the fire held no heat the skin could feel. Yet the thread and string burned, and the ashes fell away into the breeze from the Waking Sea. 

The Keeper placed her hands over theirs. “You are bonded. Remember the Ways of Peace: _Vir Inan, Vir Vhenan, Vir Melana_ , and Sylaise will be with you.” As Lanaya finished her sentence, the storm finished its race to the shore and broke over them, rain thrumming against the ground and their bodies, memories brought by the skies.


	23. Chapter 23

“Aldenon conceived a plan to enlist strong allies and Calenhad went into the Brecilian Forest to make it so. But unbeknownst to the mage, Calenhad had made contact with the Chantry. When Calenhad returned at the head of the Ash Warriors as Aldenon expected, so as well did templars and Circle mages join our host. Aldenon was in a fury such as I’ve never seen. He wanted a kingdom of free men, of moral people beholden to law. Where a common man could tend his land safely and in peace. He lifted his staff and his voice echoed through the hills: ‘A civilization cannot be civil if it condones the slavery of another. And that is what this Circle is! But by accident of birth, those mages would be free to live, love, and die as they choose. The Circles will break—if it be one year, a decade, a century, or beyond. Tyrants always fall, and the downtrodden always strive for freedom!’”

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Líadan**

****After hasty, yet well-meaning congratulations, the rain chased the small group from the cliffs and into either the Dalish camp or the castle. The dogs elected to stay with Nuala and the still-sleeping Cáel, as if they could sense that tonight was different from other nights. Revas and Gunnar circled around their people once more before bounding to walk protectively beside Nuala and her charge.

Líadan lagged behind with Malcolm, attempting to ascertain if she felt any different than she had before. She knew they should to get out of the rain as well, yet they’d become so soaked already that she didn’t feel a pressing need to hurry. Her eyes flicked over to the man walking next to her—her _bondmate_ —and still could not detect a difference in feeling.

“I don’t feel any different,” said Malcolm. “Do you feel different? I keep thinking I should, and then I don’t.”

“I don’t, either.” She wiped away the raindrops that had dripped onto her face from her hair. “Maybe it’s because we were already bonded, and the ceremony just made it public. Well, as public as possible, given the circumstances.” The wind picked up behind them, and combined with the cold rain working its way through the clothing under her armor, it made her shiver. Certainly not the idyllic bonding she’d imagined as a child. The romance was certainly there, but the weather left much to be desired.

Malcolm put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close as they both quickened their pace to the castle and the prospect of a roof over their heads. While his armor was just as slick from rain as hers, he felt warmer. “That seems like the best answer to me,” he said. Then he was silent for a time.

Even with his silence, Líadan could tell he wanted to ask at least one question, if not many more, and was barely holding them in. He’d somehow managed to keep himself to just one during the ceremony, not including the follow-up question for the first. Yet, for the rest of the ceremony, his eyes had danced with curiosity within a peculiar mixture of love and anxiety. “All right, ask.”

He threw his free hand into the air. “What was with the fire? I mean, really? Fire? Marethari didn’t use fire with Gheyna and Cammen’s bonding ceremony. So imagine my surprise when Lanaya’s hand suddenly held fiery flames and she announced she was going to _use_ said fire very, very near our persons. Especially our hands! Hands are important.”

“Marethari doesn’t have the same flair for the dramatic,” she said, not bothering to hide her amusement. “It’s a valid part of the ceremony, just optional. Not every Keeper can produce the flames Lanaya could—the ones that don’t burn the bonding couple, only the thread.”

“Well, I’m still not convinced she didn’t do it just to unnerve me.”

“Most likely your reaction did play a part in her choosing to include it in the ceremony.”

“I knew it.”

She grinned at him. “Just means she likes you. Same with Panowen and Ariane. They say you aren’t bad for a human. High praise from Dalish who haven’t spent a lot of time among humans.”

“Are they really leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, before dawn breaks. They don’t want to take any chances.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the dimly lit Dalish camp. “I can’t decide if I’ll miss them or not.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, aggravated that his armor negated the impact. 

He relented. “All right, all right, I’ll miss them. Also, I think the Chantry should take notes on the brevity of Dalish ceremonies. That was, what? Ten, fifteen minutes, tops? Anora and Alistair’s wedding took forever in comparison. Granted, it was a royal wedding, but even the quickest of Chantry weddings takes at least an hour. I far prefer the Dalish. You know how not to draw things out.”

Líadan didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm, yet she wondered if he truly knew the reasoning behind the relative shortness of any Dalish ceremony. They kept them quick because there was always the chance humans could show up and disrupt them. Holding in a sigh, she opted to keep the darkness away. They were supposed to be celebrating, not remembering the crimes committed against her people. “You can tell your Divine that tomorrow when you meet her.”

His mouth pursed in displeasure. “Eh. I’d rather not. And, come to think of it, I’d rather not talk about the Divine or the Chantry.”

“You brought them up.”

“True. Change of subject.” He looked down at her, the curiosity having returned to his eyes. “How is it that you’re still awake and talking coherently? Usually you nap sometime during the afternoon to combat your fatigue, but I don’t recall seeing you sleeping earlier today.”

“What do you think I was doing all afternoon?”

“I thought you spent the day helping the Ra’asiel get ready to leave.”

She sighed. “No. It was my intent, but I ended up sleeping in Lanaya’s aravel for hours instead.” She’d meant to just take a quick nap, enough to gather enough energy to finish out the day, but Lanaya had neglected to come in and wake her up at the time Líadan had requested. Instead, the Keeper had let her sleep, deciding she needed it if she didn’t wake on her own. Líadan, on her part, did not believe anyone could require as much sleep as she seemed to, perhaps not even infants. Cáel did not sleep as much as her body seemed to want her to. As the days went on and the fatigue did not abate, she had become more and more frustrated at not feeling like herself.

“I bet you were happy about that.”

“Oh, absolutely. Thrilled.” She wished he wasn’t wearing armor so she could more effectively discourage him. As it was, she was having a hard time finding gaps to exploit, given the moon had been entirely covered by dark rainclouds. The moonlight was blocked so effectively that even elven eyes had trouble seeing well enough to walk without tripping, much less fine details. At least the storm had yet to bring more than wind and heavy rain.

Malcolm’s quiet chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Maybe you should consider the fact that you might need the rest.”

“Don’t _you_ start talking like Wynne and Lanaya.” To punctuate her request, she jammed a finger into a gap in his armor. “If everyone starts trying to coddle me, I might just snap. Hunters often kept hunting until they neared their time to give birth. I will do the same.”

He seemed unaffected by her jab. “If hunters can keep hunting effectively, I take it the exhaustion eventually fades. Or is this tiredness supposed to last the entire time?”

“Lanaya and Wynne tell me no, and that it should pass in the next couple of months.” They’d reached the garden, and she pitched her voice to a whisper only elven or elf-blooded ears would be able to hear. “I’m not sure I’m buying it. Sometimes, it just seems bone deep.”

His chuckles returned, and she couldn’t fathom why. Something she’d said tickled him so much that he began to have trouble walking as he worked to contain his laughter.

She halted and stared at him. “What? What’s so funny?”

Malcolm managed to stifle his laughs enough to say, “Bone. Deep.” At her puzzled look, he said in explanation, “Oghren would’ve found it funny.” When he made eye contact with her, he started with the laughing all over again, almost doubling over at the waist. 

Letting out a soft grumble of exasperation, she leaned against one of the garden’s trees, arms crossed over her chest and under her cloak, to wait for her bondmate to grow up. Judging from his current state, it could be a while. She considered leaving him here in the garden and getting out of the rain. The downpour was heavy enough that the leaves above her really did nothing to keep her dry. Not that she wasn’t already soaked through to the point where she wondered why she was even bothering with her cloak or seeking shelter under the tree. She sighed. Her childhood dreams of her bonding day certainly hadn’t included torrential rain. Nor had they included a bondmate giggling like a little child over something only a small boy or a perpetually drunk dwarf would find funny. He was thinking of _Oghren_? Oghren! There had to be something wrong in Malcolm’s head to be thinking of him.

She squared her shoulders, deciding she was better off going inside and getting some sleep. 

Malcolm paused, hands on his knees as he looked over at her, the mirth fading from his eyes when he noticed the change in her demeanor. “You really don’t find it funny?” he asked, not bothering to pull the hood of his cloak back up from when it’d fallen while he laughed.

“No. I’m not a child, unlike someone else here.”

He straightened to his full height, his body language entirely shifting from lighthearted to resolute.

She groaned inwardly. He _would_ see it that way. “It wasn’t a challenge,” she said to him as he strode toward her. 

The darkness made it difficult to discern his expression, but she easily heard the shift in his tone that accompanied his radical change in posture. “No?” he asked, but it sounded more challenge than true question.

“Most definitely no. I wasn’t saying you’re a child. I was merely calling your maturity into question. And it wouldn’t be the first time. Your sense of humor is rather suspect.”

When he was close enough for her to see his face, his body was nearly touching hers—close enough to where she could feel the heat radiating from it. “Is it?”

The tree behind her kept her from retreating from the look of staunch determination in his eyes. She knew that look. They were dangerously close to guards and it was cold and it was raining, and while as a little girl she’d had no clear idea of the second, private bonding that usually occurred after the public ceremony, the adult Líadan assumed she’d have not imagined it in this way. She lifted her chin in response to his challenge, unwilling as he was to let it pass. “Quite. It appears at the most inconvenient of times.”

“I do have a way of killing the mood, don’t I?”

“You do.” Damn this tree. Also her armor. She bit her lip in frustration; her mind was torn between the sensible choice and the more adventurous, yet possibly stupid one.

He took another step, pressing his tall body against hers. “I can fix it.” Then he moved before she could reply, and by the time his lips coaxed her mouth to open to his, she’d chosen adventurous, as he apparently had far before her. A small part of her hoped that between the dark of the cloudy night and the slanting curtain of rain they would be hidden from prying eyes. That was the last coherent thought to stumble through her mind as its sharp focus went toward seemingly more important things, such as shedding pertinent armor and clothing. 

The wet thumps of cuirasses hitting sodden ground were only background noise when she realized she could push aside enough of the neck of his gambeson to reach bare skin with her lips. Somehow, gauntlets, spaulders, and pauldrons followed, to be joined quickly by chausses and the padding underneath. She was lifted up, yet barely felt it, the tree still securely at her back, helping to support her between it and Malcolm. Then she discovered his neck within reach and she tasted the rain on his skin, surprised and pleased at the slight tang of the sea. A nip near the tip of her ear tore her lips from his skin and a barely suppressed groan from her throat at the same time. He chuckled and she felt the vibrations tumble from his chest and into hers. 

She decided that if he were able to laugh like that, things needed to be done to draw all his senses. A shift, and another, and she had to jockey for position as he caught on, attempting to avoid a final bonding, she assumed because he wouldn’t last long afterward. But she didn’t care about how long this took; she cared about being with him, both now and in life, in their bonding. Her hands crawled to his shoulders, one by one, gripping them tightly before she moved one more time, and met with success. Another gasp came from her as she drew him in, and he muffled his own against her shoulder. His rhythm became urgent almost as soon as they were joined, her own movements more than encouraging the faster pace. Her lip biting was helpless for keeping quiet, and she pressed her face against his chest, muffling herself as he was between her neck and shoulder. He rocked his hips one more time and she felt him reach his release, his fingers tightening where he held her, cradling her rear. And then his mouth bit down not-so-gently on the side of her neck. She stifled her moan as the sensation made her peak right after him.

The drumming of rain, which had been lost to them in the interlude, filled their ears once more as they stilled. Then they separated as they moved themselves away from the tree before hunting down the armor and clothing they’d carelessly dropped to the ground. Despite the cold, Líadan now felt warm, as if their bonding had allowed Malcolm to share his body’s constant warmth with her. Given the wind, she was glad for it, yet she did dress as fast as she could.

“Maker, that was stupid,” said Malcolm, still careful to pitch his voice to a whisper. “What if someone had walked through the garden? What if the rain had stopped? Or the clouds had moved and the moon came out, lighting everything? Or—”

“It didn’t.” Líadan had on enough of her armor that she could carry the rest in her cuirass under her cloak once she put it on. She turned to ascertain how ready Malcolm was to go indoors. “And we might as well take what adventure we can before it won’t be physically possible. I doubt we’d be able to manage _that_ once my body begins to show I’m with child.” The words were a little less difficult to say that time.

“Hadn’t thought of that.” He studied her as he secured his cloak, his eyes squinting as if he were attempting to imagine how she’d appear when her condition became obvious. “Nope, still can’t see it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t see me as a mother?” As she waited for his answer, she fetched her cloak from the ground behind her.

“It isn’t that I don’t see you as a mother, it’s that I’m having a hard time visualizing your body as anything other than—wait, hold still. Your back, let me see.”

Instead of following his direction, she hopped around as she tried to get a look. “What? Is something on me?”

“Would it kill you to listen to me?” he asked. “On second thought, it probably would.” One of his hands settled on her shoulder to still her while the other traced a few lines at the small of her back. He put some pressure on where he traced, and she was surprised to feel pain, squirming in response before he lifted his hand. “It’s a bit scraped up back here. Enough to have bled a little through your shirt. Maybe we should have picked a tree with smooth bark instead of rough.”

“Right, because I planned that entire encounter when I leaned against that tree.”

“You gave me a look!”

“I did no such thing!”

He took her cloak from her hands and tossed it around her shoulders. Then he gently stroked her cheek. “Yes, you did. Your eyes, they told me, ‘take me, right up against this tree,’ and it was all I could do to grant your request.”

She glanced at his hand, to his grinning face, and then scowled at him. “That was not what my eyes were saying.” With that, she turned and started for the castle. Again.

“Well, even if it wasn’t, you didn’t put up much of an argument. None at all, actually.” He jogged a few steps to catch up with her, his hand falling to the small of her back, but he kept his touch light, apparently remembering the scrapes. “You going to see Wynne for those?”

“Have you lost your mind? No. She would want an explanation and I can’t even explain what just happened. One second I’m getting ready to leave you behind to laugh yourself silly in the rain, and the next... well...”

“We should try it again.”

“You _have_ lost your mind.”

Yet once they reached their room, she had no objections to following through with his suggestion.

The morning brought Líadan a new kind of pain, one focused entirely on her chest. At first, she was able to ignore it until she went to dress. The breastband was a trying experience. It had never hurt to wear it before, yet oddly, the tighter she made it, the better her chest felt. She frowned and re-wrapped it, experimenting with what worked best.

“Did you forget how to put it on?” Malcolm asked as he looked over from his shaving. 

That was another thing Líadan had to adjust and get used to, a routine she’d never watched any male elves do, because unlike humans, they did not grow facial hair. It had seemed strange to her at first, yet she’d grown in time to appreciate watching, especially when he did so shirtless, as he usually did. “No.”

He splashed water over his face to rinse, and then began to dry with a linen. “You sure? Because it seems to be vexing you.”

“ _You’re_ vexing me.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise at the vehemence in her tone. “Well, I was going to volunteer to help, but I take it back.” Then he made a show of being bare chested as he dug around for one of the thin linen shirts he wore under his gambeson, just to rub it in.

She bit her lip as she did her best to ignore him, and then finished with her breastband. She even managed to keep her temper in check until she went to put on her cuirass. As soon as its weight settled on her chest—not even buckled!—she inhaled in pain. Why had no one warned her of this? She was a hunter, a warrior, a Warden, and she would most certainly not be unarmored with the human Chantry’s leader and her templar minions roaming about Highever that day.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you?” Malcolm asked. “Do I need to get Wynne?”

“No. Don’t you dare. I’m fine.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you say I’m the bad liar.”

To prove to him that she was fine, she braced herself and buckled one of the cuirass’s leather straps. Creators, this just wasn’t fair. Her breasts practically screamed at her from the pressure. Determined not to let her condition win, she went for the other buckle.

“Since when has putting on your armor reduced you to tears?” he asked.

She refused to look at him as she breathed through the pain. “I’m not crying.”

“Mmm. Give it about half a minute more and those brimming tears will fall.”

A wince broke through her set jaw as she finished with the third strap. One more and hopefully she could adjust to the pressure and get on with her day.

“Usually,” said Malcolm, “when someone’s in so much pain that they’ve got tears, a healer is a good person to summon. Just saying.”

“No need. There’s nothing she could do to help. I’m not injured or sick.” She fastened the last buckle and slowly exhaled as she waited for the almost burning pain to diminish.

“Could have fooled me. You’re acting like your armor is trying to kill you. That isn’t normal, in case you’re wondering.”

“Wasn’t wondering.” And why wasn’t the pain going away? She refused to take off the armor. “And it _is_ trying to kill me, but I won’t let it.” She finally looked up at him, heat rising to her cheeks in embarrassment of her body betraying her like it was. This wasn’t supposed to happen and it especially wasn’t supposed to be noticeable to anyone else, even her bondmate. Then again, he was her partner in all this. Maybe he wouldn’t make fun of her too terribly much. “My chest hurts.”

He frowned. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

“What? No. Not that kind of chest hurting.” She motioned vaguely toward her top. “My breasts hurt, all right? So let’s just pretend they don’t and talk about something else.”

A snort escaped his mouth before he could school his expression to one of mostly concern. “And this is normal?”

“I’m assuming it is.”

“Should you ask—”

“No. And don’t you go asking her either.” Admittedly, something in her did want to see Malcolm try to say ‘breasts’ to Wynne without stuttering or blushing, but more of her wanted to keep from requiring a healer’s help so soon. She knew she might be able to stand asking Lanaya, or perhaps ask Panowen if this was normal, since she wouldn’t be seeing them again for quite some time. On the off chance that the Ra’asiel had been delayed, she hurried with her belt and daggers. She’d made her farewells the day before, but if they were still in Highever, it wouldn’t hurt to see them one more time. “I’ll see you at the morning meal,” she said to Malcolm when he seemed even more confused. “Need to see if the Ra’asiel are possibly still here.”

“Oh,” he said, elongating the word. “You’ll see Lanaya, but not Wynne. I thought you liked Wynne.”

She paused before she opened the door. “I do. But this is particularly embarrassing, and if Lanaya is still here, and I ask her, she won’t be around for me to have to look in the eye afterward.”

“That’s a rather sound argument.” He shrugged. “I’ve got nothing. Still going to be concerned, though.” His eyes widened as she began to scowl. “Not enough to ask Wynne for you! I’ll leave that to you. I’m not risking your wrath today. This morning, anyway.” He grinned. “I’ll see you in the main hall.”

Revas followed Líadan outside the castle as she sought out the Ra’asiel. When they reached the field near the cliffs that led to the camp, she could see that they were gone. Nuala stood in the middle of what had been the camp, Cáel awake and alert in her arms. Revas raced ahead of Líadan to greet both the nurse and the child; the mabari had quickly taken to both of them. When Líadan caught up with the others, she saw for herself that Lanaya and her clan were well and truly gone. Where their camp had been was returned to tree and meadow, with only scant hints that elves had ever lived there. Impressions in the ground from the statues of the Creators had been swept away, firepits buried and covered with sod, fencepost holes from the halla pen filled in, and the aravels never left tracks in the first place. She wondered when she would see the Dalish again, if she would work up the nerve to coordinate with the other Dalish Wardens to attend the _Arlathvhen_ , or if she would remain in Ferelden. Her reluctance to go had nothing to do with putting forth the Grey Warden Dalish as a clan, and everything to do with her unease about being around other Dalish when she would plainly be showing. In particular, she was uneasy about her grandfather knowing, and he would _certainly_ be at the _Arlathvhen._

She sighed. The departure of the other Dalish certainly hadn’t done much to improve her mood.

“Good morning,” said Nuala, seeming quite sincere in her cheeriness.

Líadan discovered that she had a very hard time being cranky toward Nuala. She just had that way about her, where you felt more than a bit bad if you acted grumpy around her. “Morning.” Though she refused to be cranky toward Nuala, she also refused to associate the word ‘good’ with ‘morning,’ especially this morning. Then again, she also couldn’t be grumpy in the face of the gummy smile Cáel gave on seeing her. His whole little body went into his smiles and she returned one nearly as strong as his. It seemed with each day that passed, her son interacted with others more and more.

“It was a lovely ceremony last night. I never realized how short and simple the Dalish version of a wedding was. In the alienage, we try to make them fast, but the Chantry service can only be shortened so much.”

“Malcolm said much the same about the length of the Chantry’s version. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the real reason for our brevity.”

“Afraid of humans interrupting?”

Líadan raised an eyebrow, fighting to rein in her defensiveness—the Dalish did nothing out of fear of humans. “I wouldn’t say afraid. But we do tend to plan ceremonies with an eye toward concise should any humans stumble upon the camp and disrupt them. It’s been known to happen on more than one occasion.”

“The Denerim Alienage had problems with some of the lordlings who liked to interrupt weddings. Several couples tend to marry at the same time. Given that we had enough difficulty arranging for a Chantry priest to agree to perform the ceremony, it was more prudent to take advantage of the time given. For the lordlings, it became a sport for them to disrupt as many and as much as they could. Sometimes, they’d take some of the young women who were supposed to be the brides. Some of the women returned, others did not. We were never sure who was more fortunate afterwards, the dead or the living.”

A streak of outrage went through Líadan at hearing of such a thing being allowed to happen in any sort of place with the gall to call itself civilized. While she knew humans who proved that they were able to conduct themselves with common decency, the rest of humanity seemed determined to prove they were little more than barbarians. “Does this still happen?”

Nuala shrugged. “Possibly. There haven’t been any announced weddings since the Blight, and news between Highever and Denerim moves slowly. My own group wedding was the last I know of, but I doubt they’ve gone two years without any. My father mentioned he believed he’s found a match for my cousin Rhian, so I suspect there may be another round of weddings taking place in the Quarter soon enough. I’m sure they’ll tell me if anything happens.” Her countenance brightened once again. “Maybe I could even go since we’ll be in the city.”

“I don’t see why not.” 

Nuala adjusted Cáel in her arms as he shoved his fingers into his mouth and gummed them. “Though I’d have to leave this little one at home, I believe, if possible. As good as Alistair’s changes have been for the Quarter, I don’t think it would be safe without guards, not yet. And bringing an escort of human guards would ruin the mood.”

The mention of guards reminded Líadan to check for Cáel’s own. A quick scan revealed Kennard’s position closer to the cliffs, a respectful distance away, yet close enough to aid should there be trouble. Satisfied that her son’s guard seemed to be attending well to his duty thus far, she returned her attention to the other woman standing with her. “You know, you should probably mention what’s happened before to Alistair. I really don’t see him tolerating that sort of thing at all, much less right under his nose.”

“Well, as I said, it’s been two years since anything remotely provable has happened. Besides, Alistair wasn’t King before that, so he’s off the hook for now. But I will keep your counsel in mind.”

Líadan nodded, and at the feeling of hunger plying at her stomach, she started back toward the castle. 

Nuala fell into step beside her. “You feel any different?”

“Pardon?”

“After being wedded. Bonded, I mean.”

She opted for the truth. “No, not really. Neither of us do. But we both feel like we should feel different.”

“It’s normal not to. At least, it was in my own experience, even though I hadn’t known Nelaros before. Takes a while to sink in, I think. Anyway, perfectly normal.”

“We don’t hear that applied to us very often.”

Nuala gave her an amused, yet kind smile. “What, a Dalish elf and a Fereldan prince? No, I wouldn’t think so.”

But by then they were reaching the edge of where it was safe to speak about such topics, and they changed the subject to innocuous things. They parted ways once they reached the castle, Cáel needing to eat, and Nuala not wanting to feed him in the main hall with all the soldiers milling about. Cáel tended to get cranky when jostled from his eating, much the same as his Warden parents.

Without Nuala around, Líadan had to force cheerfulness during the morning meal. When she realized she wasn’t really fooling anyone, she gave up trying.

Hildur didn’t help matters, either. “Líadan, I would like you to go down to the harbor to welcome the Divine when the rest of the official contingent does,” she said without looking up from her plate.

“That’s nice,” said Líadan. “I’d rather not. In fact, given the choice, I’d rather entirely opt out of meeting her, so I think I’ll stay here.”

Hildur paused in her eating to give Líadan a level look. “You’re going to force me to make it an order, aren’t you?”

“If you insist on me going, then yes.”

She sighed. “Fine. I order you to greet the Divine with the others.”

“Why?”

“Now you’re questioning orders?”

“From what I have observed, this would not be the first time,” said Sten.

Líadan glared at him.

“Because it will help you with learning to accept the human Chantry for what it is,” said Hildur.

“It’ll take a lot more than being part of a welcoming party,” said Malcolm.

Líadan’s glare shifted from the qunari to her bondmate. On his part, Malcolm assiduously kept his attention on his meal instead of meeting her gaze.

“If you say so,” she said to Hildur. Good thing she’d managed to keep her armor on despite the pain, though she doubted it would do much good if it came to a fight if the Divine had a lot of templars with her. Aside from them draining her mana, though she wouldn’t use it much in a fight in the first place, one woman in leathers against a score of men in full plate wouldn’t stand much of a chance. Sure, she could probably take a good many with her, but there’d be no question of her capture, or worse.

“You’ll be the death of me, I know it,” Hildur said as she went back to her food.

“I do not understand how the humans can stand to follow a leader who worships an illusion,” said Sten. Then he rose from his seat, bumping into one of the servants who’d thought to dash behind the qunari before he stepped back. He’d miscalculated, and the collision propelled the servant into Wynne, whose elbow smacked into the upper section of Líadan’s cuirass. 

The pain came searing back and Líadan inhaled sharply. 

Behind them, the servant apologized to Sten, and then practically ran in the other direction. Sten muttered under his breath about inept and incorrectly assigned _basra_ and strode out of the hall. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Wynne said to Líadan, giving her a pat on the shoulder with her apology. 

“It’s fine,” Líadan said as she attempted to keep from gritting her teeth and failed.

Wynne’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, and then cleared with realization. “Ah, reached that stage, have you? That explains your extra abrasiveness this morning.”

“This is a stage?” She decided she may well have to kill them all for not telling her everything she should expect. These surprise symptoms were getting very old, very quickly.

“Unfortunately.”

“How long does it last?”

Wynne shrugged. “For some, maybe a week. For others, past the birth.”

Líadan dropped her bread and pushed her plate away. “This is horrible. I don’t see why women do this.” How was there not yet a better way of bringing children into the world? The mages should’ve come up with something easier by now.

“Come with me.” Wynne stood, finished picking at her meal. “I’ll give you a potion to take the edge off, and a supply for the weeks ahead. Otherwise, you’ll most likely end up eviscerating someone before the end of the day.”

“I’ll say,” Malcolm said from behind his cup.

“Starting with him,” said Líadan as she leaned over with her eating knife still in hand. The only thing that kept her from exacting revenge was Wynne’s surprisingly strong hand clamped on her arm, pulling her away from the table, and then leading her from the room. Only the chance at relief from the pain kept her from turning right back around. She decided Malcolm should count himself lucky Wynne was such a good healer, and that she had a grip as strong as a blacksmith’s.


	24. Chapter 24

“My team was sent to evaluate the fortified structures that overlook the northern caravan routes in the Vimmark Mountains. The Viscount’s library suggests the buildings were part of an ancient Grey Warden fortress, constructed to guard the pass but abandoned after the Free Marches gained independence from Tevinter. ****

Our examination revealed construction that is remarkably sturdy for its age. The fortress’s foundations reach deeper into the rock than expected. Two levels below the surface, we discovered a series of twisting, underground passages, chiseled out of the mountain itself. I commanded the men to set up camp there.

Not an hour later, one of the newer men reported voices from the depths. He flew into a frenzy, demanding that we leave immediately. Those unused to tight spaces often display such hysteria. Thankfully, I was able to calm him before his raving affected the rest of the team.

But he was gone this morning. Tracks led deeper into the caverns. We shall follow him.”

— _from a scout’s report, apparently quite old_

**Bethany**

****She was going to die, she was sure of it.

Everything burned. Her skin, her hair, and the blood running through her body, all of it was on fire. Sweat left her exposed skin slick and her robes damp. And then there was the song she thought she kept hearing, right at the edge of her mind. But she only heard it when she wasn’t paying attention to it. Whenever she tried to discern the melody, she lost track of it, and convinced herself she was losing her wits. Which, she realized, was quite possible, since she kept fighting the urge to wander off into the Deep Roads on her own, to find the source of the strange melody. Maybe if she did, it would stop.

Anders seemed more there than before. Looming, maybe, or closer to her mind, or something. Then he _was_ there, right in front of her, his hand clamped on her arm, leading her back to the camp the group had made for what passed as night when they were underground. “You can’t wander away,” Anders whispered to her, sounding angry.

Why would he sound angry? “Was that what I was doing?”

“Yes.” He sounded impatient now. “Why?”

She blinked. “Why, what?”

He stared own at her, his eyes studying, prying, as if trying to discern something of great importance. Then he frowned, having found whatever he was looking for, and apparently not liking it. “You’re further gone than I thought. Maker.” He sighed. “We need to talk to your sister.”

“She’ll yell.”

“Most likely.”

“She yells a lot. More than Mother.”

Then they were at the campfire, Marian was looking up at both of them standing there while asking them, “Why am I going to yell?”

Anders sighed again. He sighed a lot. He’d let go of Bethany’s arm, but kept a hand on her elbow. Bethany suspected it was to keep her from wandering off again. Which actually sounded like a good idea, if he became distracted enough for her to get away. 

“Your sister has the blight sickness,” said Anders.

The amusement dropped from Marian’s face. “Oh, Bethany.”

Bethany blinked. That would explain why she felt so sick, but not the music. Was it a song? Maybe a song. She wondered if Wesley had heard the melody, right before... “I’ll end up like Wesley, won’t I?” she asked Marian. Her sister could fix this, if anyone could. It’s what Marian did.

“Wesley?” she heard Anders ask.

“Aveline’s husband. He contracted the blight sickness. Died right before we escaped Lothering and Ferelden.” Marian brought her fingers to her mouth as she spoke. She didn’t chew on her fingernails, a habit Bethany remembered it’d taken her sister a long time to break.

“You mean _Guard-Captain_ Aveline? You know her?”

“Met her as we were fleeing Lothering. She was with her husband. He was a templar. He’d stayed to protect the people when others fled.”

“Aveline had to kill him herself,” said Bethany. “It was awful.” She breathed in sharply, the realization hitting her like a real blow. “Maker, who’s going to do that for me?”

“I will,” said Marian. “It’s my responsibility.”

Anders stepped partway between Bethany and a determined Marian. “You may not have to.” He cleared his throat. “There are Grey Wardens nearby. We can bring her to them. Other than turning into a ghoul or having someone kill you before that happens, becoming a Warden is the only option if you want to stay alive and human.”

“Join the Grey Wardens?” Bethany had no urge to die anytime soon, but she couldn’t see herself as a Warden. They were... dedicated. Dedicated to their cause, to fighting the darkspawn, to defeating Blights. Heroes and scoundrels at the same time, taking all into their ranks. She didn’t see herself as the former or the latter. But she didn’t see herself dead, either.

“I don’t really want to kill you, no matter what I might’ve said as a child,” said Marian. “And I can’t think of any other ideas. Even Flemeth said the only cure for the blight sickness was to become a Grey Warden. If Flemeth couldn’t come up with another solution, I doubt anyone could. Anyone mortal, that is.” She turned to Anders. “Is there anything you can do in the meantime? She looks like she’s either going to fall on her face or try to run off.”

“Which?” asked Anders.

“Either. Both.”

“She very well might.” Anders waved his hand, which glowed a bluish-green with his peculiarly powerful healing magic, and Bethany suddenly felt more herself.

She rubbed at her forehead, still trying to rid herself of the song. “Thank you. I don’t know what you did, but it feels like a cure.”

“It isn’t.” Anders didn’t even look pleased with what he’d managed. “Mostly, it just hid your symptoms. Instead of curing the illness, it masks the parts that make you feel awful. Doesn’t even slow it down. You just feel like you’re fine, up until the point where you turn into a ghoul.”

“Keeper Marethari did that for Líadan, with a human healer, before the Wardens took her,” said Merrill. “She still had a high fever, but she acted like she was perfectly fine. She believed she was, but the Wardens said otherwise. I wonder, if Marethari and Enchanter Wynne hadn’t helped alleviate her symptoms, if Líadan would’ve been more agreeable to going with them. There was a great big argument, and everyone was very unhappy.” She looked from Marian to Bethany. “You aren’t going to argue, are you? I really don’t like arguments, especially when you’re just trying to save a friend’s life.”

“No arguments,” said Bethany. “Not from me. I’m just happy my head is clear right now.”

“Just don’t forget that it’s temporary. I’m not even sure if the spell will work a second time once this one wears off. The taint has progressed a great deal. We’ll need to get to the Wardens quickly if you’re to go through the Joining before you succumb.” Anders let go of her elbow, yet remained at her side, still wary. He pointed at an opening for one of the offshoots of the Deep Roads. “They’re that way. About an hour or so walk, depending.”

Marian looked over at Bartrand, who shrugged. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re back in six hours. We’re leaving with or without you after that.”

“And how are we supposed to tell when we’re out of time?” asked Marian.

“I’ll get you back in time, Hawke,” said Varric. “My stone sense might be largely missing, but I can at least tell time while we’re underground. But we should get going if we’re going to go. Wouldn’t want my brother getting antsy and abandoning us down here.”

Bethany wasn’t sure if she felt grateful or resentful that Anders remained right beside her as they tracked the Grey Wardens. Eventually she asked him why, and he’d mildly pointed out that she’d tried to wander off, and that she might do so again, possibly without any forethought. Since that was how it happened last time, she didn’t bother arguing. Instead, she mulled over her possible new path in life, if she didn’t die getting there. A Grey Warden. If she’d thought any of the three of them would’ve become a Warden, her first guess would’ve been Carver, with Marian a close second. But Carver was going to be a _templar_. Bastard. She threw a glare over her shoulder at her twin brother. He looked away, guilt in his eyes.

Good. He deserved it.

Yet instead of her brother or sister becoming Wardens, it was going to be her. Would she even fit in with the Wardens? She didn’t feel very Warden-like. She wasn’t heroic or particularly courageous. Then again, she didn’t think Anders was either of those, and _he_ was a Warden, which she’d conveniently forgotten.

The melody summoned her again, pulling at the edge of her mind. Then she asked Anders, “Do Grey Wardens hear a song all the time? Doesn’t it drive you mad?”

“Song? Blast. We need to move faster.” For the first time, alarm was written plainly on Anders’ face, whereas before it’d been concern and perhaps a mild panic.

“So do you or don’t you?” He wasn’t being very clear, Bethany thought. Downright evasive. Which, she remembered, was what Wardens excelled at.

“We don’t. Not until the—look, the Wardens will explain it to you after your Joining, all right? I can’t exactly talk about it right now.”

“Will it go away or not? Because if it isn’t going to stop, I don’t want to become a Warden. I couldn’t take a lifetime of this.”

He sighed. “It will go away after the Joining. I can’t tell you anything more. Hurry up, or this entire conversation will become academic because you’ll be dead.” He paused and tilted his head to the side. “Nearly there. They should be through—or not. Darkspawn. Wonderful.”

At least Bethany knew what to do. Magic was easy. Calling fire and ice to her fingertips, casting those elements onto unsuspecting parties—darkspawn, in this case—was as instinctive as breathing. Summon, cast. Summon, cast. An easy rhythm with a counterpoint of an occasional healing spell. She could ignore the song; she could forget the choice she’d had to make and the one facing her very soon. Too quickly, the darkspawn were dispatched, and she was left with reality. The song was louder, the taint was stronger, and tendrils of the fever began to kindle in her blood. 

The Grey Wardens walked through another opening into the large, ancient room. “Anders,” said the one in the lead, his gravely voice jarring in the quiet found post-battle.

“Fancy meeting you here, Stroud,” said Anders, sounding almost hesitant.

Stroud halted and crossed his arms over his breastplate. Behind him, the small pack of similarly dressed Wardens did the same. “I could say the same. I thought you were through fighting darkspawn.”

Anders shrugged. “Well, you know how they are. They just can’t stay away.” When Stroud didn’t respond to the humor, Anders shrugged. “I was here in the Deep Roads as a favor. Mostly trying to keep people from getting killed.” He motioned toward Bethany. “I wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped.”

Warden Stroud leveled his sharp focus on Bethany, as if assessing her. “Ah, tainted. So you think the girl would be a good recruit? Because we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. It is no kindness.”

“You’d be an idiot not to recruit her,” said Marian. 

“Mage,” said Anders. “Healer. I recall you needing them. Not just you, either. The Fereldan Wardens need mages, as well. If you can’t use her, send her there.”

Bethany had an errant thought of wondering if this was what it felt like when slaves heard themselves being bartered over. Hearing them talk of her abilities and skills and attributes as if they were the only important things to consider, instead of her life being the important thing to save. The rest should’ve been secondary, but apparently not to the Grey Wardens.

Stroud studied Bethany once more, assessing her condition, and then nodded to himself. “All right. We’ll take her, on one condition.” He looked directly at Anders. “You come with us, as well.” Then he held up a hand to forestall Anders’ argument. “For this mission only. I would rather not go without a healer, yet I did not want to bring a non-Warden. After this mission, you may go your own way yet again, Anders. I give you my word.” From behind Stroud, the other Wardens broke off and began to tend to the darkspawn bodies.

“I...” Anders glanced up at the ceiling and frowned, possibly at the Maker, and then looked at Stroud again. “You have a deal.”

Next to Bethany, Marian relaxed, but only slightly, before turning to Merrill, the last remaining mage in her own group. “Merrill, you should probably get to making a lot of healing potions and poultices next time we make camp. If letting Anders go is what it takes to keep my sister alive, then I’m all for letting him go.”

“I’ll come back,” said Anders. “I have my clinic, after all. Responsibilities.”

“And Ser Pounce!” said Merrill. 

Stroud slowly shook his head, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed his amusement. “Always with the cat.”

“My neighbor is watching him now.” Merrill’s brows drew together in concern. “Carefully. It can sometimes be... dangerous... for cats in the alienage.”

Anders had the same mixture of disgust and concern written on his face. “Same goes for Darktown. Lots of desperation in both places.”

“If we could discuss something else, that would be great,” said Carver.

Marian whirled to glare at him. “What? You’d rather talk about how our sister is either going to die or become a Grey Warden?”

“It’s a close thing.” Though he said one thing, Carver’s unwillingness to meet Marian’s gaze, and the constant shifting of his feet said another. “They’re both highly unpleasant.”

Stroud cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, before he turned to address Marian, as if unwilling to directly speak with Bethany. “If the girl comes, she comes now, and you may not see her again. Being a Grey Warden is not just a cure. It’s a calling.”

Bethany wasn’t sure if it was her fever tricking her, but she could’ve sworn she heard Anders snort at Stroud’s comment. She wondered what that meant.

“Are you sure about this?” Marian asked her.

At first, she didn’t reply. Not out loud. _No_. Then she said, “What I am sure of is that I don’t want you to have to kill me. I can’t put that on you. So if going with the Wardens means a chance to live, then I’ll go. I want to live.”

“We must move quickly,” said Stroud. “Our mission is urgent, and preparing the Joining will take some time.”

Marian hugged Bethany, and Bethany pretended she couldn’t see her older sister’s eyes shining with tears. “I’m sorry,” Marian said.

“Me, too.” Bethany couldn’t say yet whether she believed this wasn’t Marian’s fault, and she was certain it was that absolution her sister wished to hear. Marian had pushed and pushed the need to go into the Deep Roads to give themselves a way out of Lowtown, and then she’d insisted Bethany go, because of being an apostate. Traveling in the Deep Roads was a better way of hiding from the templars than huddling in Uncle Gamlen’s hovel. “Take care of Mother. And please tell Carver I’m still not speaking to him.”

Marian moved her head back to look at her in askance. “ _Bethany._ ”

“ _Templar_.”

“Mmm. Point. All right, but what if you still die?”

“I’ll haunt him.” He was her twin, so it was only appropriate.

Carver sighed.

Goodbyes with the others went more quickly. She did give Carver a hug—for all an ass he was being, he was still her brother—but she did cast an itching spell on his trousers before she let go.

He didn’t notice. Some templar _he’d_ be. As she and Anders walked away with the Grey Wardens, Bethany glanced back long enough to see Carver looking after her like he were jealous. Well, he had the templars. They could suit his need for independence or whatever it was he was searching for just fine. Then she faced forward, almost marching with the quiet Wardens. It seemed a couple of them knew Anders, and greeted him warmly. One looked vaguely familiar to her. She decided she must’ve seen him with Anders the first time he was in Kirkwall, trying to find a home for his cat. Maker, it felt like a lifetime ago. And in a way, it was.

“We must be well away from those others before we can ready and go through with the Joining,” Stroud said to the Warden walking next to him. “An hour of travel, at least, to the next way station. It will also move us closer to the fortress.” He briefly glanced back at Bethany, assessing her again. “I believe she will hold on for that long. We will carry her if we must.”

She scowled.

Anders, who’d moved to walk next to her, apologized. “I do think my spell will keep you feeling somewhat okay until then,” he said after. “I can tell your fever’s returning, though.”

“Thank you for agreeing,” she said, attempting to ignore the effects of the illness running roughshod her body. “You didn’t have to do that. You could’ve said no and have yourself continue to be rid of the Wardens.”

A grimace crossed his face. “You might not thank me later.” He sighed. “I don’t like the agreement, but I know it was necessary. I realized long ago that pragmatism is a common theme when it comes to the Wardens. You’ll learn it, too. I just hope it doesn’t change you too much. Wouldn’t want Varric to have to change your nickname.”

 _Sunshine_. She wondered if she’d ever hear Varric call her that again.

When Stroud finally called a halt, Bethany was being half-carried, half-dragged by Anders, and a Warden she’d been introduced to as Jaska. They gently set her on the ground while Stroud dug around in his pack. When he came up with a smallish wooden box, he looked over. “Anders, I need your help with the preparation.”

Anders stood, took a step forward, and then frowned. “What about the—”

“Ingrid picked it up while we were negotiating.”

“Ah.” Then Anders moved off with Stroud into back corner of the small way station, a once-smooth stone wall blocking them from sight.

In another section, near a wall that’d broken down, Ingrid wiped grime from a stone basin with a rag, moved her hands over something, and then water filled the bowl. Bethany’s mouth dropped, stunned even as she began to hear the lilting notes of the melody again. “What is this place?”

“Way station, as I’m sure you heard Stroud say,” said Jaska. “Legion of the Dead used them until they were pushed back. They’ve got runes in those basins, so they could get fresh water. We use them now, when we can. Better than trying to find untainted sources of water, that’s for sure.”

She heard his explanation, but didn’t acknowledge it, drawn to the melody as it surged. If she could just find it—

A hand clamped on her arm. “Oh, no, you don’t,” Jaska told her, and then directed a yell toward the back corner. “You might want to hurry. She’s hearing the song.”

Her head whipped around to face him. “You know about it? Can you hear it?”

“Tell you after,” he said.

“Secrets. So many,” she whispered, and then returned to the task of finding the source of the song. She tried to stand, but fell. So she tried to crawl, but Jaska held her back. Then Ingrid helped him, both of them working to bring her to her feet, yet keeping her from bolting at the same time. She swore at them, surprised at her language, and surprised by her anger. She blinked sweat out of her eyes.

Then Anders and Stroud were in front of her, Stroud holding some sort of chalice filled with a vile concoction. There was an explanation, but she didn’t understand it, only catching every other word or so. Anders recited some sort of oath that the other Wardens recited with him for the final line. The chalice was in her hands and she couldn’t remember taking it. Stroud told her to drink, and she figured if she did this, they’d let her go, let her find the song. So she drank. As she collapsed, she heard Stroud pronounce her a Grey Warden. Someone caught her before she could smack her head on the stone, and then she dreamed.

She dreamed of darkspawn and dragons, Old Gods and magisters, battles and death and doom and blight.

When she woke, her mouth was as dry as the Silent Plains, and she could hear the others talking in low voices.

“I... apologize for Benoit,” she heard Stroud say to Anders. “I did not believe he would desert as he did and go after you, especially with a group of templars. How he found them, I am not even sure. I was fooled, and was not saddened to find him dead. You, even with your peculiar reluctance to be a Warden, I would rather have at my back than a man who calls himself a Warden, yet remains beholden to the Chantry and its ideals. With what lengths some Wardens must go to in order to defeat the darkspawn, a templar masquerading as a Warden would be quite dangerous.”

“I didn’t think you had anything to do with it,” said Anders. “Benoit was always reckless, from what I saw.”

“Be that as it may, I owe you, for not holding Benoit’s actions against us. That is why I will not hold you to the Wardens after this mission. That should, I believe, make us even.” A rueful chuckle came from Stroud. “Provided that no other templars follow you afterward.”

Anders shared in the chuckle, and then asked, “Out of curiosity, what’s the mission?”

There was a scrape of boots on rocks and dirt as Stroud adjusted his position. “We’re being sent to investigate some sort of fortified structure that overlooks the pass in the Vimmark Mountains. There were certain reports that it could be an ancient Grey Warden fortress, long abandoned. At first Weisshaupt was content to let it be, but that was before there were some reports of talking darkspawn in the area above it. After hearing that, Weisshaupt thought it best to check.”

“So, the Architect could be around there.”

“It is not without possibility.”

“Well, best you keep an eye out for traps.” A shuffle as Anders shifted; a rocky ground wasn’t all that comfortable for sitting. “What would the Wardens need a fortress for in the Deep Roads? It isn’t like we can stop the darkspawn or hold them or anything. They tunnel. They’d get past, eventually.”

“I do not know. Some suppositions have been made that it is a prison.”

“A _prison_? What would it hold?” A pause, and then: “Actually, you know what? I don’t want to know. And if we have to discover it, I’d rather postpone it until we’re face-to-face with whatever it is.”

“There is nothing wrong with preparation, Anders, and much wrong with willful ignorance.”

“For you, maybe.”

Bethany couldn’t stand to hold still any longer, not with how her back was protesting being flat on the ground for however long it’d been. She moved and stretched, slowly bringing herself to a sitting position, surprised at how good she felt aside from her beleaguered back. The fever was gone, and the song along with it.

“She’s awake,” said one of the Wardens nearby, who was strapping his bedroll to his pack.

Anders and Stroud walked over quickly to kneel next to her. “Welcome, sister,” said Stroud. “How do you feel?”

“Better than I did,” she said. 

“That’s not something you hear too often after a Joining,” Ingrid said before she knelt next to the men. “Usually, it’s ‘I think a herd of horses ran over me,’ or ‘this is the worst hangover I’ve ever had’ or something like that. You must’ve been pretty far gone to actually feel _better_.”

“She was hearing the song,” Anders said. “That’s how far it was.”

“It was like it was calling to me,” said Bethany. “I had to follow. I didn’t have a choice.”

Stroud straightened and stood, his knees crackling as he did. “That’s the song the darkspawn hear. It’s the Old Gods, calling to be released from their prisons. And so the darkspawn dig for them, to free them. Only, once they find them, they taint them, and turn the Old God into an Archdemon.”

“Oh.”

“You won’t be hearing that song again for a long time,” said Stroud. 

“But I will hear it again?”

“Unfortunately,” said Anders. “There’s a lot you need to know about being a Warden, now that you’ve lived through the Joining.”

She blinked. “The Joining could’ve killed me? I thought it was a cure.”

“Ha! Not exactly. That’s part of all those things you need to know.”

“You can tell her as we walk.” Stroud had already found his pack and begun to heft it onto his back. “We’ve been resting for eight hours. We must make haste for the fortress.”

“ _You_ can tell her,” said Anders, following suit. “You’re the Warden Commander.”

Stroud turned to regard them both for a moment. “Do you not believe she would rather hear it from a friend rather than a stranger?”

Was Anders a friend? Bethany supposed he was.

“Actually,” said Ingrid, “I believe she’d probably rather hear it from another woman. So, if you’d excuse us, you go on ahead, boys. We’ll walk a little behind and catch up.”

The men shrugged and did as Ingrid asked, setting out while Ingrid helped Bethany up, gave her a waterskin and a pack, and then led her out of the way station. “So,” Ingrid said after waiting for Bethany to drink her fill of water, and then demolish a stack of trail bread in an attempt to quell her hunger, “you’re a Grey Warden. Feel any different?”

“Hungry,” said Bethany. “Also not feverish.”

Ingrid chuckled, and then brushed at a few wisps of errant brown hair that’d escaped from her tight bun. “Hungry is normal, as is not being feverish, but most Wardens don’t go through the Joining already tainted.”

“Already?”

Ingrid then went on to explain the benefits and downsides to being a Grey Warden, things Bethany never would have suspected, never would have dreamed of, until the secrets were revealed. Like Anders had predicted, her thankfulness for his role in her becoming a Warden faded away, replaced by anger at her fate. Anger with him, anger with Marian, frustration at realizing this wasn’t her. She wasn’t made for all the darkness being a Warden meant. Fighting the darkspawn and the blight and always, always with the taint. Maker. She should’ve had Marian kill her. Her anger didn’t extend to Ingrid, and she kept speaking with her over the next couple days, or what she assumed to be days since it was hard to tell the passage of time in the Deep Roads. Anders, she didn’t say a word to, and he didn’t even bother to attempt after he’d caught her first glare.

By the time they reached the entrance to the fortress, gigantic doors made of a mysterious dwarven metal soaring up into the rock ceiling of the Deep Roads, she was mired in her regrets. Jaska worked the door open with another of the Wardens, a dwarf with a long blond goatee. When they slowly swung open, Stroud seemed to consider them and what lay beyond. Then he turned to Anders. “I’m leaving you here.”

“What?” Anders gaped at him. “You brought me here on purpose, you know. To have a healer in there. It defeats said purpose if you keep me out here.”

“I know.” Stroud even went so far as to nod in agreement. “However, I changed my mind. If we fall, if we do not return from the depths within, someone will have to send a message to Weisshaupt, or at least other Wardens to inform Weisshaupt. Since I am not obligating you any more than this mission, I will leave you. And I will leave Bethany, as well, because she is so new. She has much to learn. If we do not return, send her to the Fereldan Wardens before you go on your way.”

Anders sighed. “All right. She’ll fit in well there, I think. Eventually.”

Bethany didn’t miss the look he shot in her direction.

“Give us three days. If someone does not come back by then, seal this door with whatever spell you can think of, and leave.” Stroud rummaged around in a pouch, and then came up with a rolled parchment that he handed to Anders. “A map to the nearest exit. You should not be overrun with darkspawn, given that Bethany is new and you haven’t been a Warden for so long. If you are, then leave right away. Do not engage.”

“Right. So we’ll just be out here, then. Waiting. Outside these very intimidating doors.”

“Dwarven construction. The best,” said the Warden with the goatee. Bethany hadn’t learned his name, yet. She never would.

The farewells were brief, and then Stroud led his little band into the fortress, the doors triggering shut behind them. Anders crossed his arms and leaned against the doors to wait.

Bethany stood before the doors, studying them as she tried to figure out whether or not to feel abandoned. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel perfectly safe with Anders, as safe as anyone could feel in the Deep Roads. It was more that she’d just _become_ a Grey Warden, and they’d all pretty much just left her behind. While she hadn’t really known them, she was beginning to like Ingrid, even if the other woman hadn’t provided any information about this mysterious ‘Architect.’ And now, she probably wouldn’t see them again.

Maker, how she hated the Deep Roads. The hatred extended to Anders, because he was the only available target, and she resolved to continue not speaking to him.

 


	25. Chapter 25

“Then Aldenon left. And although Lady Shayna slew Simeon that day and Calenhad ruled a united kingdom, my liege was not the same without his mentor and friend. We live in the kingdom built on the dreams of two great friends, and we are all lessened by Aldenon’s departure.” ****

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Líadan**

Before Wynne would hand over the rest of the potions—and Líadan really did want them, because they worked—she insisted on an examination to make sure everything was fine. “I’ve yet to do one,” said Wynne, “and it makes me nervous that no one’s taken a good look at you. And don’t you try to tell me Keeper Lanaya did, because she told me herself that she did not.”

Líadan sat heavily on Wynne’s neatly made bed, and then crossed her arms over her chest. Without pain, which reminded her she should be grateful and polite to the person who’d gotten rid of said pain. “All right.”

Wynne arched a suspicious eyebrow. “All right? Just like that? No arguments?”

“Well, if you want me to argue, I’m sure I could come up with some. I was being polite, since you made my breasts stop trying to kill me.”

“They aren’t trying to kill you, dear. They are preparing.”

Líadan sighed and flung herself onto her back. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“Sit up. I know you know you can’t wear armor for an examination. Everything else can stay on, of course, but the armor can sometimes be a problem.” As Líadan pulled off the armor she’d so diligently put on earlier, Wynne continued with the prior subject, unwilling to be distracted. “And you will have to think about it, whether you like it or not. You may as well do so now rather than later, when you still have a modicum of choice.”

The dread she kept so carefully stuffed into a little emotional box began to rattle the lid in an attempt to crawl out. “If I think about it now, then what happened the first day will happen again. The panic and dread are still very much present. They’re lurking under the surface, just waiting for a chance to take over, and I don’t want them to. So, I don’t think about it when I can help it.” Down to the linen and leather she wore under her armor, Líadan settled back on the bed again, and waited.

Wynne’s magic flared over her hands as she hovered them over the other woman’s body. “You should not let such things control you.”

“I’m not. Hence not thinking about it.”

“That’s just as much control as letting them rule your emotions. You will have to face them, make peace with them as much as you are able, and then move on. For your child’s sake, if not your own, or you will associate panic and dread with this child even after it’s born.”

She closed her eyes at hearing out loud a fear she’d had since she’d found out. “I know. And it wouldn’t be fair to her. Or him.”

“Her,” Wynne said softly.

Líadan’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“You’ve progressed enough for me to be able to tell. You’re still in the earlier stages of when healers can tell these sorts of things, and less experienced healers would have trouble determining the sex of the child at this stage. But my many years have given me a few advantages, and this is one of them. Your child is a girl. A daughter you will see in a little more than six months, Maker willing.”

“Creators willing, you mean.” Líadan’s correction was said kindly, knowing her friend hadn’t meant anything by it, just a turn of phrase. Her hand twitched in want to touch her abdomen, but she refrained, afraid of making it even more real than it already was. Wynne’s revelation had done enough as it was, changing a possibility into more of a potential person. Pronouns were no longer ‘it’ or ‘they’ or both ‘he’ and ‘she’ due to not knowing. She knew. Her eyes closed again, struggling in the narrow space between elation and sadness. 

“Any gods willing,” said Wynne. “Is this good news or bad?”

“I don’t know.” For herself, she didn’t know. But she did know for someone else. “Malcolm will be excited. He wanted a girl.”

“Did he? Well, if she turns out anything like you, he’s in for it. You’d think he would know better by now.”

She opened her eyes and smiled a little, happy for the chance at humor. “I think he likes it. He gets bored when not challenged.”

“True.”

The silence following allowed too much of the dread to creep into her mind, and she spoke to get rid of it. “I don’t want her to be like me.” Though she’d meant to speak firmly, her voice came out as a whisper.

Wynne’s hands stilled. “In what way?”

“Magic. I don’t want her to have magic. I don’t want her to be a mage, weak or strong. At all.”

“Because of the Chantry?”

“At this point, your Chantry has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what would your objection be? I thought the Dalish celebrated their mages.” The magic returned to life around Wynne’s hands.

“We do, when the child is Dalish.” She closed her eyes again, not sure why the fear had returned so strongly at hearing she would have a daughter. Perhaps she assumed a girl stood a better chance of inheriting the Gift than a boy would, even though in her family line both men and women had carried the Gift. Her grandfather had been the last before her, a Keeper to her mother’s clan, though she had not seen him since her parents’ deaths. It was bad enough she would be ending her elven line. Yet, for her to give the Gift to a _human_ line seemed even more of a betrayal. Humans did not value the Gift as they should; they scorned what they should have treasured, wasting it.

“And your daughter will be human. I see. Well, I see as much as a human would be able to understand.” When Líadan didn’t respond, keeping her eyes closed, Wynne continued. “Perhaps that is something you could ignore for now, unlike other things. The question of magic in your daughter will not be answered for quite some time, five or six years, at least, depending on when she showed signs. I know your magic appeared late. Did you know when any of your ancestors showed theirs?”

“My grandfather was five, I was once told.” Líadan opened her eyes and gave a rueful smile. “I remember because he had signs so early, and everyone was so shocked that my Gift appeared so late. And so little. My grandfather’s a very strong mage, good enough to be the Keeper of a clan.”

“Was he Keeper before Marethari, then?”

“No, he isn’t of the Mahariel. He’s the Keeper of the Suriel clan.”

“He was or is? Because the contractions you’re using could go either way. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, young lady.”

“Does it matter?”

“I had thought you had no living blood relations left to you.”

“I never said that. Everyone assumed.” They had made the wrong assumption, but she’d never felt compelled to correct them. The topic of her grandfather wasn’t one she wanted to speak about with anyone, not anyone from the Mahariel, and no one here. She knew her grandfather blamed her for what happened to her mother, and she had no desire to think of him, much less speak of him. That his blame matched her own made it that much worse. He hadn’t offered to take her in after her parents had died, and she hadn’t been willing to ask, because if he’d wanted to be her guardian, he would have said so.

“Considering the importance the Dalish put on family, I’ll admit to being confused, but I won’t pry. I think I’ve done enough prying as it is, and one person can only be expected to take so much. All right, nearly done. I do need you to roll over.”

It was only then that Líadan remembered the scrapes on her back. Suddenly, talking about her grandfather didn’t seem such a bad idea. “Is that really necessary?”

Wynne gave her a withering look. “Would I have asked otherwise?”

Líadan let out a long suffering sigh and did as asked, mumbling under her breath, “Don’t say you weren’t warned,” but she didn’t think Wynne heard her. She didn’t have long to wait for the other mage to find out for herself, anyway.

“Your back, dear. What happened to your back?”

“I had a run-in with a tree.”

Wynne raised an eyebrow. “You were a Dalish hunter before you became a Dalish Grey Warden. Unless the tree was possessed and moving of its own accord, I hardly think you would have that much trouble avoiding a marauding tree.”

“You’d be surprised at how fast trees can move.” Líadan considered telling Wynne about the trees Velanna had been able to _make_ go marauding. She still had occasional nightmares about it. At least darkspawn were comparatively easier and safer to kill. Trees required fire, and fire did not like to be controlled. She sighed. “Do you seriously want the real answer?”

But Wynne didn’t need the confirmation. “Andraste’s grace! First, outside during a lightning storm, and now this?”

Why couldn’t this woman just heal and let things go? “It isn’t like we plan these things.”

“I should say not.” Wynne huffed, and then Líadan felt the familiar warmth of healing magic. “Well, if you’re going to insist on continuing to be so daring, you should consider another attempt at learning some of the healing arts.”

“Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because I’m healing your wounds from your adventures as we speak, that’s why. Aside from that, learning to at least heal skinned knees will go a long way for you if your children are anything like you and Malcolm in regards to their personal safety.”

Líadan felt her arguments falling by the wayside. Wynne had a very good point. Not that healing wouldn’t have been useful before, but now she had even more of a personal motivation. “Maybe. I’ve tried quite a few times, you know. Keeper Marethari, Fiona, Velanna, and even Anders did their best to teach me. _You_ even tried once, but it never took.”

Wynne helped her up to a sitting position. “Well, that was during the Blight. We lacked focus. Perhaps we can make it stick this time.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” She ran a hand through her hair before standing up. “So did everything—other than my back—look okay?” While part of her was still so terribly torn on how she felt about this child, the other part desperately wanted the child to be all right.

“She’s perfectly healthy, and developing well.” Wynne placed a kind hand on her forearm. “Once I get the records from Weisshaupt, I’ll have a better idea of how often to check on the two of you, and what, if anything, out of the ordinary to expect.” Then she went to a shelf and fetched a basket of potion vials. “And here are the potions I promised. These should keep you from causing any unsuspecting guests undue harm. _Due_ harm, however, is fair game.”

Líadan thanked her and went to stash her treasures in her room.

At midday, as Líadan walked down to the harbor with the others to greet the human Divine, she wondered if the Chantry’s leader would qualify for due harm. Most likely not, since harming her would cause a great deal of trouble for a good many people she cared about.

Tempting, though. From a Grey Warden, they’d never see it coming. No, better not. She didn’t particularly relish fighting a score of templars, or dying in the process. And she had noticed the rain had finally receded, as if welcoming the Divine to Ferelden. Líadan was bitter about it herself, and figured the native Fereldans would be even more so.

She glanced over at Malcolm walking next to her, and caught him doing his best to fight a broad grin that desperately wanted to appear on his face. “What are you smiling about?” she asked, making sure to keep their conversation between them and not any of the others who walked ahead of them.

His eyes flicked toward her, a hint of guilt slinking through the mirth and what seemed like smugness. “I’m not smiling.”

“Your eyes say otherwise, and if you think you’re hiding that smile, you think wrong.”

He finally allowed the smile to light his face. “I feel like a little kid who’s gotten away with something.”

“Keep up like you are, and you won’t have.”

“Hence trying to hide it.”

“You’d better get better at it, and fast.” From their position walking down the hill into the town, she could already see a boat in Highever’s deep harbor. “I can see a huge ship already. And they have their sun flag up off the back of the boat.”

Malcolm peered down at the harbor for a moment, and then gave her a sidelong look. “You mean they’re flying their ensign from the stern of their carrack?”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

He considered it briefly. “Maybe a little. But at least call it a ship, not a boat.”

“I thought it was a boat. It’s a vessel that floats on water and is used for transportation.”

“Yes, but a boat becomes a ship when boats can fit on it.”

She resisted rolling her eyes, still not understanding why anything to do with sailing always had to change perfectly reasonable nomenclature. Their silly conversation, however, was also a very good distraction from her irritation and admitted anxiety over meeting the Divine. “So, it’s a big boat that can carry little boats.”

“Which is when it becomes a _ship_.”

“Maybe to you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

She grinned. “You looked smug. Had to be fixed.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to reply, but closed it as they crossed into the town proper, and she considered the argument won since he’d have to keep his silence. It was one thing to act as they were with no one around to eavesdrop, but in the town, they had to act with some decorum. Or so Anora had insisted before they’d left the castle.

It seemed like the entire town had gathered on the streets and at the harbor, jamming every possible open space aside from the path the Highever castle and city guards had cleared. The guards remained along the entire path, pressing back the clamoring crowd. Líadan hadn’t realized just how important the Chantry and the Divine were to the humans, and listening to the crowd as they talked and shouted excitedly about the ship in the harbor, she had to admit Hildur had been right. She had needed to see this to understand just how ingrained the Andrastian religion really was. For all the Fereldans had complained about the Chantry, they seemed perfectly pleased with it now.

When they reached the harbor, Alistair and Anora, as King and Queen, took the lead, with Fergus and Cauthrien close behind. Malcolm and Líadan stood in the rear, and were quickly joined by Hildur. At their questioning looks, Hildur shrugged. “I decided it would probably be for the best were I here to greet the Divine, as well. Especially since I stole a bunch of her templars.”

“She really is _not_ going to be happy with you,” said Alistair.

“I’ll not charge her for the Grey Warden lyrium all the prisoners have consumed and we’ll call it a draw,” said Hildur.

The ship drifted closer, and Líadan noticed that all the sails were rolled against masts or the horizontal beams they were attached to, and she’d be damned if she remembered the proper terms. Not only were the sails furled—that was the right word—but she could see sailors standing all across the beams on the masts. “Creators, what are they doing? Are they mad?”

“They’re Orlesian,” said Cauthrien.

Líadan barely kept herself from outright pointing at the clearly insane sailors. They were just standing out there, over the ship and the ocean and really quite high. “Why are they all standing up there?”

“They’re on the yardarms,” said Malcolm. “It’s called manning the yards. In theory, it’s to show the entire crew so you know no one is lying in wait to use arrows or magic or what-have-you. They’re telling us their intentions are peaceful.”

“It doesn’t look like any of them are holding on. What if someone falls?” Those sailors had to be touched in the head. She could understand, mostly, being up in the rigging in order to make the ship sail properly, but she couldn’t fathom just standing up there to... stand.

“It would be rather unfortunate,” said Fergus, who didn’t sound like he thought the happenstance would be misfortune at all.

Malcolm shook his head slowly, as if disappointed. “I thought they’d show off more. The winds are right; they could have sailed to the dock instead of kedging. So sad.” 

She wasn’t sure what kedging was, and didn’t particularly want to ask and risk another lecture about nautical terms. It did sound more like a noise someone would make while getting punched, and not a term to do with sailing. She pressed her lips together in a firm line and focused on the ship again. The rest of the crew and a sizable amount of templars had lined up along the ship’s rails, and in the middle she could see several women dressed in robes, each a single, bright color, all different from one another. As the ship slowed to a halt, the Fereldan longshoremen began the process of securing it to the dock with thick ropes. A plank was placed between the ship and the pier. Then templars who had lined the ship’s rails formed up and marched onto the pier to establish a perimeter before the flock of brightly clothed women began to descend. It was then that Líadan noticed the distinctive hat worn by the short woman in the middle.

“The hat is a... curious affectation,” she said, rather quietly, she thought. Especially since the hat was completely ridiculous. It looked as if the woman was wearing a tall wedge on her head, with the widest part at the top. Líadan had to look away before a laugh bubbled out. Then curiosity won over her discretion, and she looked toward the group again, this time at the women around the Divine. “And the rest of her entourage is quite colorful.”

Anora glanced over her shoulder at Líadan, annoyance clearly written on her normally carefully schooled features. “Do you have anything nice to say?”

She met her look evenly. “I was being nice. Would you like me to say what else I’m thinking?” Because the templars were giving her the side-eye, it was putting her on edge, and she really wanted to put a stop to it. She also didn’t appreciate Anora seeming to scold her in any way. That sort of thing, she felt, Anora should reserve for Alistair, Malcolm, or Fergus. Just because Anora’s prickliness hadn’t waned with the cessation of the rain didn’t mean Líadan needed to suffer for it.

“On second thought, continue to be as nice as you have been.” Anora nodded at her once, and then turned her attention to where the Divine and the flock about her were stepping off the gangplank and onto the wooden dock. As soon as the templars moved from blocking anyone from approaching the Divine, every Fereldan dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.

Líadan exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Hildur. It would have been nice for one of the Andrastians to warn them about this. They could have waited in a less conspicuous place until this unnerving part of the ritual greeting was over. Instead, they stood over everyone except the templars and the Divine’s retinue, doing their best not to make eye contact with them. Líadan was also completely appalled at her friends cowing to this mortal woman. She wanted to run to each of them and pull them to their feet, urge them to raise their eyes and not submit. But she held fast. To submit or not—it was a choice they had to make on their own.

“You may rise,” said the Divine.

There was an exhalation of breath from every person, followed by the shuffling and clinking of various armors and cloth. Líadan watched with vague curiosity as greetings and introductions were made between the Divine and the Fereldan nobles present. She was surprised at the absence of overt hostility from either the Divine or Alistair and the others. Even from Malcolm, there weren’t many signs of the conflict she knew he felt over the Divine’s visit. Only if one knew him well and looked closely was the tension in evidence—his fingers weren’t quite relaxed at his sides, his shoulders were more straight than usual, and his weight remained evenly distributed on both feet, ready to move instantly should the need arise.

Soon enough, the introductions moved to the two official Grey Warden representatives. Líadan left the talking primarily to Hildur, though she did manage a brief, yet polite nod at the Divine when Alistair said her name—who took care to note her role in ending the Fifth Blight—and also kept to herself all the things she very much wanted to say to the Divine. At this point, the others should consider this her best behavior, she decided. She hadn’t drawn on the Beyond or even moved for her daggers. Creators, they should give her a medal for her restraint.

“You are a mage,” the Divine said to Líadan, without even the preamble of a friendly greeting.

Líadan stared at the Divine, who’d been introduced as Regula, the first of her name, and had no idea how to respond. Every response she had would not go over well.

On her opposite side from Malcolm, Líadan heard Hildur mumble, “No shit.” Then before the Divine could continue, Hildur said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Grey Warden. She’s a Senior Grey Warden—not an apostate.” She raised a hand and turned her index finger in a slow circle, pointing out the gathered templars. “So don’t get any ideas.”

One of the templars, in more distinctive black armor and not wearing one of the bucket helmets, descended the gangplank at hearing the Divine’s words. He stepped up next to Regula, hand near the grip of his sword. “I should think we would all understand the reluctance to have a non-Circle mage in close proximity of the Divine. There would be concern for Her Perfection’s safety.”

“I can assure you, Warden Líadan poses no threat to her Most Holy,” said Alistair.

“It still remains that she is unharrowed and not a Circle mage,” said the Divine. “Though I am here to prevent any more diplomatic incidents, I nonetheless have entrusted Knight-Vigilant Renaud with my protection. I would follow his counsel on this matter.”

“And what would this counsel be, Most Holy?” asked Anora.

Ser Renaud leaned over and said something into Regula’s ear so softly that even Líadan couldn’t hear it. Regula nodded, and then said, “A templar escort remains with the Grey Warden mage at all times while we visit here in Highever, as well as when we continue on to Denerim, would be an acceptable compromise.”

Líadan wondered if Regula defined compromise the same way she did, because what the woman had offered sounded nothing like compromise. More like a demand. She hated demands, especially when made by persons to whom she owed nothing. Tension wound through her body, clenching her fists, and yet she stayed her tongue, for the sake of her friends and her bondmate.

Next to her, Malcolm shifted restlessly, his jaw flexing in want to speak up in her defense.

“That is not a compromise,” said Hildur. “My Wardens are only a threat to darkspawn, not human religious leaders. I will not allow a templar to trail her. There is no need; she is in control of her magic.”

“It remains that she is unharrowed, and that is the test we use to determine if a mage is truly in control,” said Regula.

“Right, because Uldred was such a fine example of restraint,” Malcolm said in a barely audible mutter.

Hildur elbowed him, and then whispered, “I’ve got this. She’s my Warden to protect.”

Alistair cleared his throat and held up a hand. “If I may?” At Regula’s nod, he said, “As you well know, I was trained as a templar before I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens. I can guarantee your safety through my protection whenever Warden Líadan is in your presence, Most Holy. I believe that may be a more palatable compromise for now, until we have time to discuss other possibilities once we reach the castle.”

Regula’s eyes flicked over to Ser Renaud, who gave a curt nod. Then she returned to Alistair. “That is acceptable for now, Your Majesty. But we will certainly have to discuss the precautions we must take for the remainder of my trip here in Ferelden. Now,” she said, bringing her hands together in front of her rotund body, “Empress Celene has sent along a gift for the King of Ferelden and his brother the Prince.”

“First threats, and now presents? How very Orlesian,” Fergus said under his breath.

Líadan hoped, for the sake of the diplomacy they were so desperately trying to maintain, that the Divine or the Knight-Vigilant did not possess excellent hearing.

Either she did not, or she pretended not to hear the comment, because Regula turned and signaled to one of the crew. Then the Knight-Vigilant cleared his throat. “Most Holy, the gifts are with the ambassador’s ship, which is still being kedged to its dock. He will have to present the gifts when he arrives. Perhaps while you are making yourself comfortable in your pavilion?”

“Oh,” said Regula. “Yes. Yes, I remember.” Then she turned toward Alistair and Anora. “I trust you have not strained yourselves in making accommodations for myself and my retinue? I wish to stay on the field where my templars died, so that I may better pray for their souls at the Maker’s side.”

“No trouble at all, Most Holy,” said Anora, so smoothly that Líadan wondered if Anora was always that good of a liar, or if it was a more recent development. “Would you like to go with your templars to set up your pavilion now? Then once you have settled in, we can all meet to discuss other matters.”

Regula nodded. “That would be agreeable.”

Anora continued polite exchanges with the Divine as the group started the walk up to the battlefield. Alistair, Fergus, and Cauthrien occasionally participated in the conversation, but it was Anora who managed to keep things from becoming horribly silent, or worse, impolitic. Despite the occasional looks shot in his direction by Alistair and Anora, Malcolm remained disinclined toward smalltalk. In fact, after a few such looks, Malcolm returned his own challenging one, as if daring them to make him speak. It was obvious to Líadan that Hildur had done a good job of placating him thus far, but his restraint would only last for so long.

As they passed by the castle, Fergus dispatched a squire to tell Seneschal Robert to go down to the harbor with a contingent of honor guards to fetch and escort the Orlesian ambassador up to the keep. Then they continued onward toward the battlefield.

Except the prisoners’ camp loomed before the field itself, causing the Divine to stop to stare at the mass of tents and the soldiers walking the perimeter. “How many of my templars yet live?”

“About a hundred, Most Holy,” said Alistair.

The answer seemed to disconcert her, as she startled slightly and turned her steady gaze from the camp to the King. “Have so many died since the last missive? I was told there were more survivors, perhaps two dozen more. Was their medical care not adequate?”

“Their care was quite competent,” said Anora, a trace of her frustration showing in a brief grit of her teeth. “Their initial care was provided by Senior Enchanter Wynne, one of the non-Wardens who helped in the final battle with the Archdemon. Without her skills and tireless effort, far more of your templars would have died.”

The opposite of tireless, Líadan thought. Exhausting. Wynne still had yet to completely recover.

“Then where are the others?”

“I took some,” said Hildur. “Conscripted them, so you can’t have them back. I’d say I was sorry, but they volunteered, and Ferelden needs Grey Wardens after the massacre at Ostagar. Considering the protection the Wardens provide Thedas, I assumed the Chantry would not object to helping. Or am I incorrect in my assumption?”

Anora raised an eyebrow at Hildur’s show of political savvy. Líadan was certainly impressed, as Hildur had left the Divine with no recourse but to agree.

“No, you are not,” said Regula. “They will continue to serve the Maker’s will in ridding the land of darkspawn and their taint. But have you conscripted so many?”

“Others requested asylum,” said Alistair, “and I was inclined to grant it, in most cases. And there were others who committed crimes during their march from the Frostbacks to Highever, and will be tried in the King’s court. The rest are here, and you may take custody of them at any time you wish, Your Perfection.”

The Divine pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something particularly sour. “I believe I will take custody now.” She inclined her head toward Ser Renaud. “Knight-Vigilant, if you would see to it.”

“Right away, Most Holy.” Ser Renaud bowed once and trotted off toward the camp, waving for some of the more recently arrived templars to accompany him.

After watching Renaud’s departure, the Divine returned her gaze to Alistair. “And what of my Knight-Vigilant sent to the field?”

“He perished, Most Holy,” said Alistair. “He was given the proper Andrastian rites with his brethren.”

Regula flinched, and then turned to view the battlefield ahead of them. “Only the Word dispels the darkness upon us,” she whispered. Then she straightened and motioned toward other templars and some of her priests, giving them instructions to set up her pavilion and the other various tents they had brought with them from the ship. “We shall meet at your castle for the evening meal,” she said to Fergus. Then she looked at Alistair and Anora. “I trust this is acceptable? We have much to set up, and I have much to pray upon.”

“Of course, Your Perfection,” said Alistair. “We’ll take our leave.” Before they started their walk back, Cauthrien elected to stay behind to help with the transfer of prisoners.

The group was halfway back to the castle’s gate when Alistair asked, “Does anyone else find it rather creepy that she _wants_ to sleep on what amounts to mass grave? In my opinion, that’s just asking for trouble of the ghostly kind.”

“With all her objections to mages and their dangers, you’d think she would avoid an area with a thinned Veil,” said Malcolm. “Speaking of the Veil and danger, you could just tell her I have templar abilities and I can protect her from Líadan. Not that she needs protection from her.”

Alistair shook his head. “And have her more angry with me because she’ll have it confirmed that I gave away Chantry secrets? Yeah, how about no.”

“I’ll sodding figure it out,” said Hildur. “There’s no way she’s having one of her people follow around one of my Wardens. The only templar I’d trust around her would be you, Alistair. Well, I suppose Malcolm, even though he just has the abilities and wasn’t even a templar apprentice like you. Then again...” She trailed off as she looked up at the sky in thought. “Yes, Thierry might be an option, if he were a full Warden instead of a recruit.”

If she were going to be forced to have a templar escort if she wanted to remain at Highever and Denerim and the trip in between with the Divine present, and she couldn’t use Alistair or Malcolm, Líadan decided that Thierry might be acceptable. He seemed a reasonable man, and especially so since he’d argued with the Divine. “I could tolerate him,” she said out loud.

“You could just put him through the Joining,” said Alistair.

Hildur nodded. “I very well may have to if she pushes the issue.”

“She will,” said Anora. “I would advise you to move quickly to make Ser Thierry a Grey Warden, or the Divine will force Líadan from Highever or force her to allow a templar to follow her.”

“Which I won’t do,” said Líadan.

“And I wouldn’t allow in the first place,” said Hildur. “All right. I want all the Grey Wardens assembled in the chapel in two hours.”

“Why, yes, you may certainly use Highever’s chapel for your ceremony,” said Fergus. “By all means, Warden Commander, make yourself at home.”

Hildur turned to face him. “You know, you lot really could have said something about everyone, and I mean _everyone_ , taking a knee and bowing their heads when the Divine arrived. Because I’m not sure ‘uncomfortable’ even begins to describe how Líadan and I felt when we were left standing there, the only ones not taking a knee. That was the first time I’ve felt tall in my entire life, and it had to be awkward, because you blighters couldn’t be bothered to let us know about that particular point of etiquette for Andrastians.”

“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” asked Fergus.

“Eventually. You could start by not giving me shit about using your chapel.”

Fergus rolled his eyes. “Warden Commander, if I didn’t say anything about your requisitioning various parts of my estate without so much as running it by me, you might start to believe I was truly upset about it.”

“He has a point,” said Malcolm. “I know I’d worry if he stopped making droll comments.”

Hildur grumbled something inaudible. Then she said, “Fine. I’m going to go round up the others. The rest of you, I believe you have an Orlesian ambassador to greet. Have fun with that.”

Alistair groaned. “Maker, I’d managed to forget.”

“In such a short amount of time?” asked Anora. “I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t know the Divine would be bringing the Knight-Vigilant,” said Malcolm. “And did anyone else notice that said Knight-Vigilant sports same kind of magnificent, flowing mustache as Thierry does?

“Did I ever,” said Fergus. “It was all I could do not to swoon right there.” Then he sighed. “We might as well go see about this ambassador. Andraste’s sword, I wish the Divine had mentioned the ambassador was tagging along. I have to prepare myself to deal with him. Seriously prepare.”

“More than for the Divine?” asked Líadan.

“Far more. The Divine is Chantry. The ambassador? He is _Orlesian_. Maker, I can’t wait for this visit to be over with. Why she couldn’t send an apology in a letter like any other person on Thedas, I’ll never know.” With that, he set off for the gates, muttering under his breath.


	26. Chapter 26

“It was my dream for the People to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste against the Imperium. But she was betrayed, and so were we.” ****

— _Spirit of Shartan_

**Líadan**

****As the rest of them followed a grumbling Fergus under the portcullis, Líadan frowned. Then she asked Malcolm, “Okay, I know Fereldans don’t like Orlesians. In fact, most of Thedas does barely more than tolerate Orlesians. But Fergus seems especially cranky about the ambassador. Why?” She assumed there was an amusing story to go along with Fergus’ crankiness and looked forward to hearing it.

Malcolm sighed, his eyes holding no amusement. “The man is the most Orlesian person to have ever existed. I think he’s more Orlesian than Empress Celene.”

“He is,” said Anora. “He wears a mask, even in Ferelden.”

“What? Is his face hideously scarred and he’s embarrassed?” asked Líadan.

“Not that anyone is aware of,” said Malcolm. “It’s an Orlesian _thing_. A great majority of the nobility insist on the wearing of masks in public. They’ll have markings on them that signify their status in Orlesian society. I suspect it also has a lot to do with that stupid Grand Game they play.” He made a noise of disgust.

“ _Orlesians_ ,” said Anora. 

“Coming through, Your Majesties,” called one of Highever’s grooms. “Orlesian horses coming through, and we’re having a problem with one of them.” They turned to find the groom struggling with the halter of the lead horse when the stallion in front caught sight of the thick, churned mud under the portcullis. To Líadan’s surprise, the horse shied away from the mud like she’d had horses shy away from actual threats, such as darkspawn or snakes. The other horses did not seem to suffer the same affliction as they blithely walked through the mud, spattering it against their legs and any bystanders. She wondered at the wisdom of someone who’d insisted on bringing a stallion. They caused far too many problems when it came to riding, and as the horse trainer at the palace had said many times, geldings and mares were far more useful.

“Wow,” said Malcolm. “Even Orlesian horses act like Orlesians.”

Alistair inclined his head toward the path leading from the town. “Don’t look now, but I think the ambassador has arrived, unless it’s a bandit with a very impractical mask.”

“One would think all masks impractical,” said Líadan. “They cut off your peripheral vision. And if they don’t, they’re not very good masks.” Then she followed Alistair’s gaze over toward where a slight man cautiously stepped from dry patch to dry patch along the path in what would be an ultimately futile attempt at avoiding the mud. It was the mask, however, that really got her attention. It was golden and seemed a replica of a man’s face, complete with squared jaw and a goatee that came to a point at the tip of the chin. She wondered how heavy it was as she continued to watch his progress after her group had passed under the portcullis to wait in the yard for the ambassador.

The man stopped at the edge of the mud, and then looked both ways as if there might be a side gate somewhere. When none was revealed, he sighed and removed the cloak from his shoulders before spreading it over the mud.

Then he walked on it and into the yard, leaving the cloak behind.

“Creators,” said Líadan. “It’s just mud.”

“To be fair, not everyone enjoys rolling around in it like Malcolm does,” said Alistair.

“Hey!” Malcolm fixed a glare on his brother. “I was pushed, I’ll have you know.”

An idea popped into Líadan’s head, and she glanced around to see if she could find Revas or Gunnar. She nearly sighed with disappointment when neither appeared. Too bad. It would’ve been fun to have them greet this ambassador, just to see how he’d react to muddy pawprints on his clothing, which looked to be expensive. “Is he wearing silk?” she asked.

Cauthrien frowned. “Haven’t Orlesians heard of traveling clothes? Silk is not meant for travel. Not his silk, anyway.”

“What I’m afraid of is that those _are_ his traveling clothes,” said Alistair.

“Then what? His court clothing is woven entirely from threads of gold and silver?” asked Líadan as she watched the man frown at the firmer mud of the yard, and then pretend to dust off his trousers.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Fergus as he joined them. “And it might have to be, in order to match that mask. Wouldn’t do to have mismatching mask and finery. He’d be chased right out of the Grand Game.” Then the teyrn turned to the King. “Alistair, you’re the King. Can’t you request he follow our social mores so that he’ll be forced to ditch the mask?”

Alistair’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s brilliant, that is. I’ll object to his mask forthwith. Well, after introductions. Or during.”

“Time to be diplomatic,” said Anora. “I believe he is finally approaching.”

The Orlesian strode up to them, and then dropped into an elaborate bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Hilaire de Lydes, ambassador for Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Celene I.”

Líadan did her best not to look bored as introductions continued. When Anora mentioned her name and role to the ambassador, Hilaire seemed confused. 

“What?” Líadan asked.

“You are a Grey Warden?” asked Hilaire, and then he waved off his own question. “Of course, of course, the Queen just mentioned that fact. I am just surprised at seeing an elf, a Dalish elf, no less, with a high ranking of Senior Warden—enough to be one of the Wardens’ representatives to greet guests such as myself and the Divine. It will take some getting used to. You must forgive me.”

“I’ll need to know what I’m to forgive you for,” said Líadan. She could easily see why Fergus didn’t like him, and she really disliked the mask. They could all see the man’s hazel eyes, yet without the accompaniment of his eyebrows and mouth, it was more difficult to tell what his intentions were. It was dishonest, and she did not like it.

“In Orlais, elves are most often servants. Not that elves are worthless! In fact, well-trained elven servants are highly valued in my country. They are nimble and dextrous.” He flashed a smile at Malcolm. “And many people find them pleasing to look upon.”

Alistair practically jumped in front of Malcolm, and at the same time, Hildur insinuated herself between Hilaire and Líadan. “Speaking of pleasing to look at,” said Alistair, “I have a request, Lord Hilaire.”

The ambassador turned to the King almost eagerly. “What would that be, Your Majesty?”

“In my court and my country, we value having opinions and truths out in the open, good or bad. This includes not hiding our faces. While you are here, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from wearing your mask. This is Fereldan society, not Orlesian. Your mask means nothing here, except for insult.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. That was particularly deft of Alistair. However, she still wanted to at least maim the ambassador, but Hildur was creating a very literal stumbling block at the moment.

“My apologizes, King Alistair.” Hilaire gave a sweeping bow as he removed his mask. The features the mask hid were neatly composed and quite handsome, were the man who possessed them not little better than a troll in his treatment of elves. “It is a habit from the Orlesian court. I had forgotten Ferelden is so... forthright.” He glanced behind him and signaled one of the grooms who’d accompanied him. “Now, if I may, I have a gift for Your Majesties and Your Highness, courtesy of Empress Celene.” He held his hand out toward the right, drawing attention to the horses a groom had led through the gate earlier. “Fine Orlesian horses of outstanding bloodlines. A stallion for His Majesty, a mare for Her Majesty, and a gelding for His Highness.”

Líadan heard a very light snort from Fergus, one that would’ve been inaudible if she hadn’t been present.

“Your horse, Your Majesty, has sired many of the finest show horses in Orlais.”

Alistair looked between the bay stallion and the mud. “Not that I don’t appreciate Celene’s gesture of goodwill, but... we’re in Ferelden. He shied away from _mud_ when he encountered it under the portcullis. Do you realize how much mud is in Ferelden? I’m sure you do. I’ve heard Orlesians make jokes about it.”

Malcolm gave his brother a sidelong look. “Does Empress Celene even realize you aren’t a very good rider?”

“Oh.” Alistair rubbed at his chin. “Maybe it’s an Orlesian plot to kill me.”

“Assassin horses?” asked Fergus.

“I’ve heard horses are smart enough,” said Malcolm.

Fergus cocked his head to the side. “You know, I always thought the Antivans would breed the first assassin horses.”

“Gentlemen, _please_ ,” said Anora, indicating the horrified ambassador.

Malcolm, most likely due to Hilaire’s earlier comment, paid no heed to Anora’s warning. “Your horse looks dainty,” he said to Alistair. “Don’t they know the King of Ferelden is a Grey Warden? I don’t think you could ride yours into battle.”

Hilaire stepped forward and held out his hands, as if he could stop their very thoughts by doing so. “Blessed Andraste, no! These are not warhorses!”

“Then what, pray tell, am I do to with them?” Alistair asked.

“Didn’t you hear? Not ride them into battle, that’s what,” said Malcolm.

Anora moved around Alistair, throwing a quick glare in Malcolm’s direction. “We are most appreciative of the Empress’s gift,” she said, even sounding sincere. “I am sure they will prove fine additions to the Crown’s stables.”

“Stables full of mud,” Malcolm said quietly. Hildur kicked him in the ankle. 

“Let us continue inside, yes?” Anora asked the ambassador. “Teyrn Fergus and I can show you in. I know the Grey Wardens have their own matters to attend to, and we would not want to keep them from their work. King Alistair, I know, will be joining them, considering he is also a Warden.”

“Yes,” said Alistair, giving Anora a look that informed her he knew exactly what she’d just done. “Welcome to Ferelden, Lord Hilaire.”

Anora started for the keep, with Hilaire and his grooms following. Fergus fell in behind them, but once the others were far enough ahead, he turned around and rolled his eyes. Malcolm laughed out loud, but the Queen and Orlesian ambassador were too far away to hear.

“Not a word,” Hildur said to the other Wardens before any of them could start talking. Líadan opened her mouth, and Hildur glared. “I’m serious. You all need to hold it in until we’re inside and in private, even if it kills you.”

By the time they gathered in the castle’s chapel, having gathered Wynne and the rest of the Wardens along the way, and sent a page to fetch Ser Thierry, Líadan’s hold on her temper had long since frayed. She paced the length of the aisle between the rows of benches, feeling caged. “Who does he think he is, calling me a servant? A servant! I’ll serve _him_ , that’s what I’ll do.”

Malcolm blinked at her show of temper, and then chose not to address it. “Celene gave me a gelding,” he said mildly to Alistair. “What’s that supposed to say after she gave you a stallion?”

“Considering your loins need no help making fruit, maybe she was wishing your brother the same potency,” said Oghren.

“If you could never say all those words together ever again, I will give you all the Highever ale I can requisition from Fergus,” said Alistair.

Malcolm merely made a choking noise.

Líadan paid no mind to them, her focus entirely on her anger at the Orlesian ambassador and the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant and all things Orlesian—which probably saved Oghren’s life. “And the Divine insisting I need a templar keeper following me around. What is wrong with these people? I’m such a weak mage that when I sleep, I’m not even _visited_ by demons in the Beyond. How could she think me a threat?”

“Wait, really?” Alistair asked as he sat up straight from the pew he’d just slumped into. “No demons at all?”

Hildur glanced up from the kit she was handing over to Wynne, who’d started the task of making the Joining potion on a wide, narrow table near the front of the room. “Probably not because she thinks you’ll be possessed,” Hildur said to Líadan. “More likely she wants a templar with you because she thinks you’ll set her on fire. And, to be fair, you want to.”

Líadan practically slammed into the wall as she leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest right after. “I’ll set them both on fire.”

“And that’s why we’re having Thierry at your side while they’re here.” Hildur pushed another component over toward Wynne. “Really, for as much your safety as theirs.”

“I’m just as capable,” said Malcolm.

Hildur smiled at him. “Sure you are. Problem is that if she decided she wanted to set them on fire or wanted to do anything else uncomfortable or magical to their persons, you’d cheer her on instead of stopping her. Defeats the purpose.”

Líadan glowered, unable to come up with a defense, valid or not, and became quiet.

“Not sure about the rest of you,” Alistair said after an uncomfortable silence, “but her being quiet scares me a lot more than her yelling.”

“Silence is what frightens you,” Sten said without moving from his guard post at the door. “And so you do everything you can to fill it.”

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, and then caught on. He closed it and pointed at Sten in recognition of what he’d done.

Líadan huffed as she realized Wynne was on the last step of preparing the Joining potion; she remembered that much from Fiona trying to teach her how. She didn’t see why they had to rush Thierry through a Joining when she didn’t need a damned templar watching over her. They were placating the Chantry and their paranoid stupidity and it was what amounted to submitting to their rule. They should’ve been happy enough with Alistair around. Or trust that the Grey Wardens weren’t in the habit of recruiting mages who had the tendency to fly off the handle or make deals with demons.

All right, Velanna had to be an exception in an otherwise perfect historical record of not being stupid when it came to mages. 

She huffed again. 

“You sound like a constipated bronto,” Sigrun said as she leaned next to her.

Líadan didn’t dare ask how the dwarf knew that a huffing bronto was constipated, because from what she recalled of the lumbering beasts, she never wanted to be near the arse-end of one. “Some friend you are,” she said quietly. “I’ve hardly seen you lately. Where’ve you been?”

Sigrun jerked her head toward where Sten stood absolutely still in his guard duty. “Working with him and the new recruits. Lots of Chantry to beat out of them, even if they’re all volunteers. At this rate, I’d just figured I’d catch up with you once we got to Denerim to get all the good gossip.” She sighed. “I miss gossip, and I’m looking forward to staying here after this when Sten, Tiernan, and Otto take the other recruits to Vigil’s Keep so they don’t start asking questions about why Thierry is either dead or already a full Warden. The constant training with them has been trying. Sten’s no fun at all and the templar recruits are even worse. At least sometimes I can pretend Sten is just playing the incredibly dry straight man. The templars? Not so much. Well, Thierry’s all right, but he’s been quiet.”

“Probably working through some guilt.” Sure, Thierry wasn’t all that bad—the Harrowing could have resulted in far more deaths than the one it had—but he was still a templar. Even once he became a Warden, should he live, it yet remained that he’d been a templar. A templar who had taken vows, unlike Alistair, and served the Chantry for years before falling far out of favor. She’d already done her best to make herself at ease with the man becoming a brother Warden, but should he truly be assigned to watch over her in any way, she wouldn’t be able to keep from resenting him. And Hildur was rushing him through the Joining for the express purpose of assigning him to follow her, when the Warden Commander _knew_ she wasn’t a true threat. “How can we just put Thierry through the Joining without having him fight darkspawn first? I thought that’s how it worked,” she said to Hildur. 

The Warden-Commander didn’t respond.

Undeterred, Líadan went on. “You get recruited, fight some darkspawn, get their blood, and then go through the Joining. Or you fight some darkspawn, get tainted and somehow survive,” she said, thinking of herself and Sten, “and then get put through the Joining.”

Hildur shrugged. “Necessity. Once we get a chance, we’ll toss him into the Deep Roads with a few other Wardens and he can prove his skill at killing them. But, believe it or not, we put recruits through the Joining all the time without having them kill darkspawn first. Access to the Deep Roads isn’t as easily found as one might think, and the farther away we get from a Blight—such as the four hundred years prior to the last one—the more difficult it becomes to find darkspawn roaming about on the surface. So we Join new Wardens, and throw them at darkspawn later, when we’ve a chance to go into the Deep Roads.”

A sharp rap on the door saved Hildur from further questioning from Líadan. Sten opened it a crack to see who it was, and on finding Thierry standing on the other side, opened the door wider to allow him in before closing and barring it shut. 

Thierry stepped fully inside, a look of surprise briefly registering on his face when he noticed every Grey Warden currently in Ferelden loitering in the chapel, and then moved to stand in front of Hildur. “You requested my presence, Warden Commander?”

Before Hildur could answer, Malcolm said, “Andraste’s flaming sword! You shaved off your mustache!”

“You lost a bet, didn’t you?” asked Alistair. “Never gamble with Oghren, that’s what I always say. Unfortunately, it’s usually what I say after I lose a bet to him, but nevertheless, I still say it.”

“What?” said Oghren, who seemed truly offended. “Pike-twirler, I might ask many things as payment for a bet, but I would never, on the tits of my Ancestors, ask a man to shave off his facial hair. Some things are sacred: the Stone, ale, and a man’s beard.”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Oghren grunted. “Better get me some ale with those apologies. Or grow a real beard instead of that boy’s scruff you keep on your chin.”

“I had thought it prudent with the Divine visiting,” Thierry said once he got a chance to speak. “I would not want to encourage her to take me back.”

“Ah.” Oghren gave Thierry an appraising and impressed nod. “So she’d go weak-kneed at the sight of your manly mustache?”

Another shrug. Thierry remained remarkably composed under the force of Oghren’s crass humor. “Perhaps. She does have a penchant for them. I was not the only one of her templars to have one. You may have noticed the Knight-Vigilant has quite a mustache of his own.”

“I bet they tickle her in all the right places,” said Oghren.

Alistair made a gagging sound. “All right, this conversation is making me think things of the Divine that I—sweet _Maker_ , I am never going to get that out of my head.”

Oghren chuckled. “And my work here is done.”

Thierry cleared his throat and looked, both expectant and bewildered, at Hildur. “Going back to the reason for my summons?”

“We need you to become a full Grey Warden as soon as possible. The plan was to have you go with the other recruits into the Deep Roads to face some darkspawn first, but the Divine’s... request has thrown that awry.”

“She aims to recall me to the Chantry?” Thierry sounded rather annoyed at the prospect, which Líadan took as a good sign. She still didn’t like the idea of a templar keeper, yet if she were forced to deal with it, perhaps Thierry wouldn’t be so bad. And he did have a sense of humor, as evidenced in his playing along with Oghren. “I take it as a recruit, it’s possible, while as a full Warden, it is not? Because if you require me to go through this Joining in order to stay out of the Chantry, I am in full agreement.”

“Actually, once the Right of Conscription is invoked, you’re nigh untouchable,” said Hildur, who then sighed. “Were the political situation between the Chantry and Ferelden not in such dire straits, I would never even consider granting the Divine’s request. However, to help maintain order, we have to compromise with her somehow.” In agitation, she drummed her fingers on the table. “The Divine requested—no, demanded—that a templar remain with Líadan while the Divine is near.”

Thierry shot a glance at Líadan, his brow furrowed in confusion. “She does not trust her own templars with her protection?”

Hildur shrugged. “Or she’s just trying to assert her authority over the Wardens and Ferelden. Who knows? Alistair was able to convince her of his own abilities in the meantime, but she wants a more seasoned templar, and I’m not willing to let one of hers follow around one of my Wardens. I highly doubt it would end up maintaining the peace intended. More than likely, said templar would end up dead.”

“I wouldn’t kill him. Or her. I think you’re being a little dramatic.” More than, Líadan thought. She didn’t just go around killing templars willy-nilly. Just the ones who threatened her or her clan.

“Am I? Is violence out of the question?”

Líadan considered the question, eyes cast on the paved stone floor under her feet. She knew very well that violence wasn’t out of the question, not after what happened with her parents. “No, but—”

“I suspect that whatever contingency you put on that ‘but’ would occur. Not because of your actions, but the overzealous nature that’s inherent in templars chosen to accompany the Divine to a known hostile country.”

“You would be correct,” said Thierry. “I was once one of those templars. However, events in the past year have done much to give me pause in what I believed.”

“Do you still believe it?” asked Alistair. “Because if you still believe all of it with a strong conviction, we’ll find another solution. If you need time, you need time, and that’s fine. But I wouldn’t want to risk either of you, and we’ve learned that rushing people into things before they’ve dealt with the emotions associated with them can lead to very bad ends.”

In an unconscious gesture, Thierry’s hand moved to stroke his missing mustache. He blinked with surprise to find it gone, even though he’d said he’d chosen to shave it off. Then he shook himself, apparently reminded of his new circumstances. “I know I still believe some. It was many years that I held an unshakable belief in the Chantry and the Divine, and while my beliefs have been shaken, I admit I probably have not cast them entirely off.” He looked over at Líadan again before returning to the King. “However, I do believe that if not provoked, Líadan would be no danger to the Divine, and certainly not in danger of possession. Any duty I was given in watching over her would be ceremonial at best.”

Alistair exchanged a look with Hildur, and then turned to Líadan. “What do you think? Will Thierry’s presence around you whenever you’re within sight of the Divine be tolerable?”

“Do you truly need me to tolerate it?” She could avoid the Divine as much as possible, pretend that no one was submitting to her will. In truth, it would be Hildur and Alistair submitting to Regula, and not her. She could subvert it as much as she dared. But if Alistair, who she felt was family, and _was_ family, considering he was her brother-in-law, whether he knew it or not, needed her cooperation, she would at least cooperate on the surface.

“I do. I hate even asking. I hate the idea of giving in to the Divine’s demands, but we don’t really have the martial power to defy her, and I don’t want to kick you out of Highever and send you to Vigil’s Keep until Regula leaves the country.”

She sighed. “All right.” Then she turned to Thierry. “Just... no bucket helmet or templar armor, and you’ll have to get a new sword, because there’s no way anyone is following me around while armed with a Sword of Mercy.”

“Those are acceptable terms, provided I can be equipped with new arms and armor.”

“Not a problem,” said Hildur. “I’ve had Wade making new Grey Warden armor for all the recruits, as well as new weapons. It’s better for all the former templars to be reminded of their new positions as Grey Wardens.” She looked at Wynne, who nodded and pushed the Joining chalice toward Hildur. The Warden Commander took up the chalice, stepped off the books she’d been standing on to reach the tabletop, and the moved to the front of the table. “Thierry, step forward.”

The former Knight-Commander of Orlais, also formerly a demoted and disgruntled Knight-Captain, did so without hesitation, accepting the chalice Hildur offered. She explained the source of the Grey Wardens’ power against the darkspawn, explained the necessity of the Grey Wardens, and then had Alistair recite the Grey Warden oath. With that, she bade Thierry to drink.

He did, and then managed to pass the chalice back to Hildur before he collapsed.

Líadan was a little surprised to discover she did not wish him to die. 

Already, Wynne had knelt to examine his prone form. “He lives,” she said after a moment.

Hildur let out a sigh of relief. “Ancestors be praised, because I was entirely out of ideas if he’d died. I probably would’ve had to send more people back to Vigil’s Keep, including Líadan. That would’ve been a more palatable option than giving in to a Chantry templar.”

“I agree,” said Alistair. “Now, I should probably go see about the meeting with the Divine. I believe I can convince her to agree to Thierry, since he’s survived the Joining. I didn’t want to ask first, and then have to explain that he was dead. Best not to encourage questions.”

“I’ll find you as soon as he’s awakened,” said Hildur.

It wasn’t until that evening, just before the planned feast, were they able to meet with Regula. Alistair and Hildur brought Líadan along, even though she insisted it wasn’t necessary and didn’t want to meet the Divine ever again if at all possible. They insisted in return that she was being difficult, and said her presence was needed to help convince Regula that Líadan wasn’t a danger. Malcolm was relegated to waiting down the hall, because they informed both of them that the two of them together practically guaranteed the confrontation no one wanted to have.

When they entered the solar Fergus had provided, they were all shocked to find that the Divine did not recognize or recall Thierry at first. “You said you’d chosen a former templar of mine,” she said as she studied Thierry. “I do not remember this man being in my service.”

Líadan wondered how someone could rely on just one single feature to remember who someone was, because other than his missing mustache, Thierry looked the same as he had a year ago. Perhaps there was more tiredness around his eyes, and he was a bit peaked from the Joining he’d undergone only hours before, but he was still very much Thierry.

“You do not recall our arguments, Your Perfection?” Thierry asked, acting very gentle toward the Divine, as if speaking with an elder who was slowly losing her faculties. “You did demote me and send me to march on Ferelden, after all.”

Regula rubbed at her face for a moment, and then nodded. “Of course. It slipped my mind. There are so many templars in my service, that at times it’s hard to remember them all. Yes, you were a very capable templar, up until you could not perform your duties as requested. And despite your becoming a Grey Warden, I believe you are able to ascertain any danger presented by Warden Líadan, and keep me safe from harm.” She paused and glanced over at Knight-Vigilant Renaud. “That is, if my Knight-Vigilant agrees with my assessment.”

He nodded. “For the sake of diplomacy, Ser Thierry is an acceptable substitute for one of my templars.” Then he looked directly at Thierry. “You understand that your presence will be required with Warden Líadan at any point where she may encounter Her Most Holy?”

“Yes,” said Thierry. 

“ _May_ encounter?” asked Líadan. “Creators, that could be anywhere on Highever’s grounds, given no one can predict a person’s whim.” And the solution that had been tolerable before quickly rushed into becoming very intolerable. “I won’t have a watchdog following me around day and night. It’s no better than being imprisoned in one of your Circles.”

“Watch yourself, elf,” said Renaud. “Be mindful to whom you speak and how you speak to Her Perfection.”

Líadan arched an eyebrow, willing her hands not to grasp the grips of her daggers. “I am being mindful, human. I have refrained from saying many of the things I have wished to. Do not forget that I am not one of your subservient Orlesian city elves. I am Dalish. I do not submit to you or your Chantry. My willingness to cooperate for the sake of diplomacy only goes so far.” She used Renaud’s phrase on purpose, to remind him of why they were meeting like this in the first place. “This is a farce. If I had truly intended your Divine any harm, she would not be alive.”

“Maker’s breath,” said Alistair.

At the same time, Hildur said, “Sodding nug’s arse _diplomacy_.”

Before she realized what had happened, Líadan found herself on the ground, struck by a smite from the Knight-Vigilant. On seeing the templar reaching for his sword, she tried to shake off the smite’s effects, and struggled to get to her feet. While the loss of mana wasn’t really a problem, the smite had physical effects, such as an almost debilitating fatigue of both mind and body, which were harder to overcome. 

From outside the locked door were shouts, first from Malcolm, who’d apparently felt the smite, and then from Highever and Royal Guards who answered his given summons.

Líadan only managed to rise halfway, the fatigue affecting her far more than it ever had with a smite before this one. As she struggled, Renaud had covered the scant distance between them. He held his sword pointed downward, the grip in both hands, ready to plunge it into her heart.

Hildur’s daggers stopped the sword, catching it under the hilt with both her blades. “Try it,” she said to Renaud. “Try it and see what happens to stupid templars who threaten my Wardens.”

“She threatened the Divine,” said Renaud, who neither attempted to muscle his way through Hildur’s blades, nor withdrew his own blade. “Deadly action is warranted.”

“She was pointing out how she wasn’t a threat, which is what you would have heard if you listened closely,” said Thierry. “Instead, you heard what you wished to so that you could take the easier route and be done with her.”

There was pounding on the door, and demands made to open it up. 

“Under control!” Alistair yelled at the door.

“I know you’re lying!” came Malcolm’s reply. 

The Divine slowly stood up, and then placed her arm in front of Renaud’s chest. “Stand down, Knight-Vigilant. Knight-Captain Thierry is correct. We must remember that we attempted to strike first. We made the first threats. We made the first assault.”

Renaud ducked his head in obeisance. “As you say, Most Holy.” He extricated his sword from the trap of Hildur’s daggers, and then sheathed it as he retreated. Hildur eyed him warily before twirling her daggers back into their sheaths on either side of her leather belt. 

The Divine slightly inclined her head toward Líadan. “I apologize for our hasty actions. For Knight-Captain Thierry to be with you only when you know you will be in my presence is precaution enough.”

Shocked at the Divine’s capitulation and meaningful apology, Líadan dropped back to the floor, landing harder than she’d intended. The fatigue had yet to withdraw, and her muscles shook with the effort to hold even her upper body in a sitting position. This wasn’t like a normal smite. Usually, she would’ve been able to stand on her own two feet by now, yet her arms trembled at the effort of holding her up. Then they gave out entirely.

Alistair, who’d knelt beside her, barely caught her before she hit the floor. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Not really, no,” she said, fighting against the fatigue tugging at her eyes, and appalled at admitting to weakness as well as showing it in front of enemies. “Can’t stand up. Not sure why. Really tired.”

Alistair glared at Renaud. “What did you do?”

The Knight-Vigilant held up his hands in innocence. “It was a holy smite, Your Majesty, nothing more. I do not know why the elf is so negatively affected.”

“She has a name,” said Alistair, not removing his glare from Renaud. “Líadan, or if you must, Warden Líadan or Senior Warden Líadan. You will use it, Knight-Vigilant.”

Another duck of Renaud’s head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I apologize.”

More pounding on the door. “You going to let me in?”

“No,” said Hildur. “Go fetch Wynne.”

“How is—why? Who’s hurt? It better not be—”

“Go _get her_. Now.” Hildur’s tone brooked no argument, and they heard heavy footsteps heading away from the door.

“I don’t need Wynne,” said Líadan. “Just sleep, I think.”

“How about we let the healer decide that,” said Alistair.

She couldn’t find the energy to put up an argument. “All right.”

“Now I know she isn’t all right,” said Hildur. “She never agrees that easily. And the color’s going from her cheeks.”

Líadan heard only a little, deciding that answering the summons of sleep wasn’t such a terrible idea, after all.


	27. Chapter 27

“As the Chantry’s hold on the kingdom grew, and Aldenon’s rebel mages were claimed one by one, the great Calenhad came to regret letting the Circle form in his kingdom. Certainly he missed his old friend’s counsel. ****

And then Calenhad disappeared, leaving crown and kingdom to his unborn son.”

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

****Malcolm found Wynne in the library after a panicked search that took far too long to complete. “Come with me,” he said without preamble.

Long used to the frantic summons of those who needed her healing talents, Wynne rose immediately from her chair, deposited her book on a side table, and followed him without protest. She did, however, ask questions as they strode back to the solar, Malcolm’s strides long, yet still shortened enough to allow the elderly mage to keep up. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, understanding that his lack of knowledge was what drove most of his worry. What he could imagine had happened was most likely far worse than the real situation. Yet it didn’t stop his mind from churning with every horrible possibility. “They wouldn’t say. They just told me to get you.”

“They who?”

“Hildur and Alistair. They were meeting with the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant and brought Thierry and Líadan with them. They kept me out and made me wait down the hall, and there were in there for some time before I felt a smite being used. Then there was shouting—all right, I was shouting. Anyway, after what seemed like way too sodding long and them not letting me in the room _still_ , Hildur told me to go get you, rather emphatically.” He really hoped the person who needed Wynne was the Divine or the Knight-Vigilant. He did realize that it was probably blasphemy to hope such things about the Divine, but he didn’t particularly care. He didn’t care because he really couldn’t see being nice to the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant or any of the Chantry’s people if they’d hurt someone he cared about. And if—no, he didn’t allow himself to think it, even though it seemed like where the Chantry was concerned, someone always ended up hurt or dead.

“Did Hildur sound worried?”

“She sounded commanding, that’s what she sounded like. If that means worry made her sound commanding, or she was just trying to make me hurry or... I really don’t know.” Then they were at the solar’s door and he knocked. Fine, pounded, but it got the point across.

Hildur opened it. Malcolm, realizing Wynne was far more important to get inside first, got out of the way as she walked through. Then Hildur stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, drawing Malcolm’s glare as he wrestled with his temper. The only reason he could fathom Hildur not allowing him inside was because it was either Alistair or Líadan who needed Wynne’s help. Maker, it was his brother or his wife who was injured and if Hildur wouldn’t let him in, it couldn’t be good news. “Why can’t—”

“Before I let you in there, I need you to promise me you won’t lose your temper with the Divine or the Knight-Vigilant,” said Hildur, looking him in the eye.

“What? Why? Why would you need me to agree to that?” He figured he had enough height on Hildur that he could get past her if he really wanted to, and he decided that, yes, he really wanted to. Before he took two steps, he found himself with a solid dwarven shoulder in his midsection, and the irritated dwarf to whom it belonged wedged between him and the door.

“Because after what happened, the Divine agreed to terms that aren’t really too terrible and I don’t want that peace broken. And if you go off like a crazed bronto like you tend to do when you lose your temper, it’ll be broken. It would also affect many more people than just you, like the entire country your brother rules, for instance. I haven’t even told you what happened and you’ve already lost your patience and acted impulsively. Not sure what made you think you could get past me, but clearly you can’t. Now, are you going to relax and take a step back so I can tell you? Or are we going to get into a fight? Because if we do, you need to remember it isn’t me you’re angry with.”

He took a breath and released it slowly, recognizing Hildur was right, as she usually was. Then he retreated by one step. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“Good. Glad to see you’re growing up.” She paused to see if he’d make a comment.

He kept quiet. No need to prove that statement wrong. 

Hildur nodded. “As for what happened, here you go. When Líadan pointed out to the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant that if she’d wanted to hurt the Divine that Regula would already be dead, the Knight-Vigilant took exception to her wording and acted on what he perceived as a threat. That meant he called a holy smite on Líadan. At first, she took it like she usually does since her magic is so weak—it just pissed her off. But when she tried to stand up, she fell back down instead.”

“That isn’t normal.” Normal for her after a smite was to bounce back up and come right at you for having the audacity to think a smite could stop her like any other mage. Instead, it made her fall back entirely on Dalish hunter training, where her skills were shockingly effective, especially when the person who’d called the smite expected a defenseless mage who would be at their mercy.

“No, it isn’t. She said as much. Alistair caught her when she fell the rest of the way down, and right after I sent you for Wynne, she either fell asleep or passed out, I’m not sure which. She did say she was tired right before, so it could go either way. The good news is that she didn’t seem hurt in any obvious way. The bad news is that, as we know, not all injuries are readily apparent on the outside.”

He wondered if it had anything to do with the child and the fatigue she already fought daily while carrying it. Knowing that she was alive and breathing and not bleeding out made him feel somewhat better, but he needed to witness it himself. “I want to see her.”

Hildur gave him a kind smile. “I know you do. But you need to decide which is more important to you: seeing her, or exacting revenge on the Knight-Vigilant.”

Malcolm shifted his weight from foot to foot, mulling over which was more important, and then realized there was really no question. “I promise I won’t lose my temper with the Divine or the Knight-Vigilant.” He sighed. “I will be a good little Andrastian.”

“I didn’t say you had to do _that_. I just don’t want you to yell or do anything that’d result in an Exalted March or your arrest or both.” Then Hildur opened the door and let him through.

At some point, Líadan had been moved from the stone floor to the sofa, since he was fairly certain a smite wouldn’t have landed her there. Malcolm took note of the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant standing quietly in a corner, eyes on Wynne as the healer worked over Líadan. Alistair stood next to the sofa, doing his best to appear not to be hovering when it was exactly what he was doing. Thierry stood in the middle of the room, as if he were separating the two camps. Malcolm took another step closer, careful to stay out of Wynne’s field of vision lest he get scolded or get in her way, and focused on Líadan. Her breathing seemed fine, and there was no blood or obvious wounds, but her eyes remained closed, she was unresponsive to Wynne’s questions, and her face was nearly devoid of color.

He threw an accusing look at the Knight-Vigilant, yet kept his tone as level as he could manage. “Since when is a templar able to cast a drain life spell?”

Renaud took offense at the insinuation, no matter how mildly it was offered. “I am no mage.” Then the Divine gave him a look, as if reminding him of the delicate peace, and the Knight-Vigilant relented. “I assure you, Your Highness, that it was merely a holy smite.” For an instant, it seemed like Renaud was going to add something else, but then he shook his head and kept whatever it was to himself.

Malcolm felt not a whit of reassurance. He also did not want the Divine or Knight-Vigilant present, and saw no reason for either of them to still be here. It wasn’t like Líadan was an Andrastian and could use a prayer or benediction or the like from the Divine. Deciding they weren’t worth the effort—even though the Divine was the head of the religion in which he’d been raised—he returned his attention to Líadan, who hadn’t yet regained her color. Wynne’s hands remained over her, still glowing with healing magic.

He crossed his arms, looked at Alistair, and then jerked his head in the direction of the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant. 

Alistair frowned as he tried to figure out what his brother meant, and then gave up and shrugged. 

Malcolm rolled his eyes, and then mouthed, _I want them gone_.

Realization dawned in Alistair’s eyes and he gave his brother a short nod. Then he finally moved away from the sofa to stick his head out the door to summon a guard. Afterward, he looked over at the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant. “Most Holy, Knight-Vigilant, I’ll have someone escort you to the main hall so you do not miss the start of the feast.”

“I would like to remain so that I may find out if Warden Líadan will be well,” said Regula. “Despite our differences, and what it may seem, I do not wish her ill.”

“I appreciate that, Most Holy, but the people attending the feast look very much forward to your presence,” said Alistair. “They would be highly disappointed were your appearance to be cut short. Have no fear, once we have news of Líadan’s health, we will share with you.”

“His Majesty is correct, Your Perfection,” said Renaud. “You are in Ferelden to make an apology. It would not do well to disappoint your flock on your first night here.”

Regula gave him a slow nod. “Yes.” She turned to the guards, flanked by templars, standing just inside the doorway. “Lead us.”

Once the Divine and Knight-Vigilant had departed, Hildur shut the door again. The rest of them let out long breaths closely resembling sighs of relief. Malcolm held his in; his worries had not yet been relieved. He paid no attention to the others as they gathered in the middle of the room, speaking in low tones. Instead, he watched as the glow faded from around Wynne’s hands and she straightened, a hand going to the small of her back from an ache. It took every scrap of patience Malcolm could muster to not immediately ask how Líadan was.

Wynne gave one last look at Líadan, and then turned to face the others. “I believe she will recover. It took me as long as it did because I was attempting to restore some of her energy, but because she—” She stopped mid-sentence as her gaze slid to Thierry in question.

“He’s a full Warden now,” said Hildur, “which means he can be privy to the information.”

“Right now, what you’re about to find out is a Grey Warden secret,” Alistair said to Thierry. “It stays between the Grey Wardens. And that means only fully Joined Wardens, not recruits.”

Thierry nodded slowly. “I believe I understand. You have my word. Nothing shall be passed on through me.”

Wynne gave a quick nod of her own before continuing. “I could not restore much of her energy because of her pregnancy. That’s also the reason why the smite hit her so hard. Under normal circumstances, a mage is almost completely drained of physical energy in addition to magical energy, usually in correlation to the strength of their connection to the Fade. Because the pregnancy has stretched the limits of her tolerable fatigue in the first place, the smite simply overwhelmed her.” An amused smile twitched at her lips. “I suspect she will be quite unhappy when she awakens.”

“But she’ll wake up?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes. Most likely it will take more than a few hours, perhaps through the night, for her body to recover enough energy to function. But she will be fine, if somewhat irritated.” She reached out with her capable healer’s hand and touched his arm. “And before you ask, the child is fine.”

Malcolm let out his own sigh of relief. 

“You still want to hurt the Knight-Vigilant, or are you good now?” asked Hildur.

“If she wakes up and finds out I already fought with Ser Renaud, she’ll have my head,” said Malcolm. “So I’m good. I rather like my head attached to my neck.”

“You wish this pregnancy a secret?” asked Thierry, who looked between Malcolm and the sleeping Líadan, and then to Hildur. When Hildur nodded, he continued. “I am not sure it will continue to be so. The Knight-Vigilant may well figure it out. This particular response to a holy smite is one found in mages who are with child. Unless the mage has sustained a serious injury within a day preceding the smite—healed or not—there are few other reasons. Those reasons have only appeared in rare instances, perhaps once an Age, according to records. Her condition is by far the most common reason for a smite to have such a devastating, lost-lasting effect. Considering her youth and that she is not a blood mage, and she hasn’t suffered a major injury in the past day, there really is only one reason. Eventually, the Knight-Vigilant will come to the same conclusion.”

Wynne sighed. “I suspected as much.”

“Well, shit,” said Hildur.

Thierry clasped his hands behind his back before turning to Malcolm. “Am I remiss in thinking congratulations are in order?”

“Not within earshot of her, no,” he said. “At least, not yet. She’s slowly warming up to the idea. Very slowly.” At the confused puzzling of Thierry’s brow, Malcolm felt compelled to explain at least a little, lest Thierry take it upon himself to ignore Malcolm’s warning. “She’s Dalish. As in, not supposed to have children with a human ever. Hildur can explain to you later how what wasn’t supposed to happen ended up happening anyway.”

Thierry nodded in understanding.

Malcolm had to admit he was impressed at how Thierry seemed to take everything in stride once it was explained. Perhaps that was why he’d been mostly reasonable back during the Harrowing debacle. It had never been Thierry who’d pushed the agenda of apostate needing to be discovered and executed. That had been Benoit’s doing.

“I believe I may be protecting Líadan from the Knight-Vigilant far more than my supposed protection of the Divine from Líadan,” Thierry said after a moment. 

“Not sure how much you can do about that,” said Alistair. “I mean, I believe you could stop Ser Renaud from killing her, but not stop him from smiting her again. Maker’s breath, he barely even moved at all to summon it. By the time I realized what he was doing, Líadan was already halfway to the ground.”

No one missed the slight glint of amusement in Thierry’s eyes. “There’s a reason Renaud became the Knight-Vigilant, Your Majesty. It wasn’t just the mustache.”

“Alistair. You’re a Grey Warden now, and so am I. Among the Wardens, I’m just Alistair. I also hold no illusion that when it comes to the Wardens, I am very much not in charge, and therefore it makes it quite easy to forget that I’m also a King.”

“Hildur’s like that,” Malcolm said absently, his thoughts on Líadan and wondering when she’d wake up. He really just wanted to touch her to reassure himself that she was okay. He cleared his throat, and then asked Wynne, “Is it safe to move her or does she need to stay here? If she’s going to be asleep for hours yet, I think it would be better for her to be in her bed rather than here, if that’s possible.”

“I believe that’s a good idea,” Wynne said with a nod. “Yes. Can you carry her?”

“I think so. I’ve done it before.” 

“Do I even want to know?” asked Alistair.

Malcolm looked over his shoulder at him. “Nothing untoward, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was here at Highever, when those templars tried to forcibly take Anders back. She’d been seriously injured the day before, and the smite that caught her then did the same thing. Fiona had me carry her back to her room.” He smiled at the memory, and how different they’d been. “I was a lot more scared of her back then.”

Alistair grinned. “Oh, you’re still scared of her. You just know her better now, so you can tell when she’s about to clobber you instead of thinking it will be at any time for anything you do.”

“Fair point. Speaking of,” he said, and indicated the door, “we should clear the halls from here to our room, because if she finds out everyone saw her like this, she’d feed us to the darkspawn.”

“I’ll see to it.” Alistair started for the door, and then stopped. “Thierry, did you notice anything off about the Divine? Because, let me tell you, I did not expect her to do what she did with stopping Ser Renaud. Or for her to apologize and mean it, or for her to accept our terms about you watching Líadan. It seems the Divine has elevated mixed messages to an art form.”

“I was as surprised as you,” said Thierry. “It’s possible she’s ill and not entirely herself. It’s hard to tell.”

“I could help, if needed,” said Wynne.

Thierry shook his head. “Her Perfection has always refused the healing of the magi, aside from life-threatening instances. I see now how it is foolhardy, but I did once share her conviction.”

“Huh.” Alistair rubbed at the scruff on his chin, as he often did when pondering something. Then he shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see.” He went for the door, and then stopped again to address Malcolm. “Don’t worry about appearing the feast. If anyone asks, I can make excuses for you, and they’ll have to accept them since I’m the King. And I’ll arrange to have food sent to your room.” He motioned to Thierry and Hildur. “Care you accompany me? I’ll tell you a secret—my wife the Queen is going to be quite unhappy with me for not being with her for the beginning. I’ll need your protection from her stern glares.”

Once the others had gone, with only Wynne remaining, Malcolm gently lifted Líadan from the sofa and headed to their room. Wynne trailed behind, and helped him settle Líadan in when they arrived. Malcolm drew one of the chairs close to the bed before sitting down heavily in it, wishing Gunnar and Revas were up with them instead of in the kennels. Or that Nuala and Cáel were up here instead of at the feast. He didn’t relish the idea of waiting alone for Líadan to wake up. He reached out and brushed the hair from her face before tracing around her pointed ear. 

“It brings warmth to these old bones to see what the two of you have together,” Wynne said softly.

Despite the gentleness of Wynne’s tone, Malcolm still startled. He’d forgotten she was there. “Even with the turmoil it seems to cause?” he asked as he looked over at her. “Things never seem to settle down. Or if they do, it’s never for long.” He sighed and sat back in his chair, returning his gaze to Líadan. “And it isn’t as if it’s going to get any better. It’ll get worse, and be worse, for quite some time.”

“Perhaps things will not be so bad as you think.” There was a soft creak as Wynne seated herself on the divan along the wall near the door.

“Very optimistic of you.” He didn’t share the same optimism, not after their winter in Denerim the previous year, and knowing what he did of the court and the Bannorn. And it frustrated him that there wasn’t a thing he could do to shield her from it. His fingers played absently with the ring Líadan had given him.

“I believe you underestimate the fondness the people have for the Grey Wardens who ended the Blight. It’s possible they will be taken up by the romance of the tale. A prince spurned by his lover finds his heart in another, after all.”

“Oh, Morrigan didn’t spurn me. It just didn’t work, in the end.” He didn’t mind saying that anymore, either. The past was the past, and he knew without it, he wouldn’t have what he had now. In a way, he was grateful for Morrigan’s role in his life.

To his surprise, Wynne let out a soft chuckle. “I realize that, but most of the population does not. I was embellishing for the tale they would pass along to others, the tale they tell in markets and over dinner tables, in taverns and in sewing circles.”

“Okay, you do have a point. I hadn’t looked at it that way. My perspective, at least at the beginning, had been more one of ‘wait, when did _this_ happen? How did this happen?’ Then I was left deciding what I was supposed to do.”

“Go with your heart, which is what you ultimately did. It seems to have worked out for the best, even through your troubles. You have a different perspective now than you did when I first met you.”

“What do you mean?” Though he sought clarification from Wynne, he knew he wasn’t the same person who’d been at Ostagar. The core of his being was still the same, but he realized his approaches had largely changed. Well, except for his temper, probably. The fuse on it had gotten longer, but he knew he tended to let it spark far more than was prudent, which often led to him acting impulsively, and of course, stupidly.

“You were, for all intents and purposes, very much a boy when you walked into Ostagar. You were brooding and angry, caught between the death of your past, and the life of your future. But by the end of the Blight, you’d grown into a fine young man, and you continue to do so, even today. I believe that scar of yours marked the start of your journey, in a way.”

His hand went to his cheek, where the scar had once been.

“Out of curiosity,” said Wynne, “what happened to it?”

He blinked. “Oh, um, Flemeth healed it.”

Wynne did a double take. “Flemeth did?”

“Yes. And I was as surprised as you are. I’d assumed she was going to kill me. Instead, she heals the scar I’d had pretty much since I met Morrigan.”

“Did she say why?”

Malcolm figured whenever Flemeth gave a reason for her doing anything, there were at least five other reasons she had in addition that she wasn’t telling. “Sort of, which is usually how she answers questions. She had insisted that if she’d meant me any harm in the past year, I would’ve been maimed already. Then she said that I hadn’t a mark upon me before remembering the scar. So I suppose she healed it to prove some sort of point. I suspect it’ll be ages before I figure out what her point was.” He shrugged. “She told me to live, told me to put on a cloak before I caught cold, and then turned into a dragon and flew away.” Malcolm smiled over at Wynne. “In a way, she kind of reminded me of you. Well, you with the ability to become a dragon, unless there’s some sort of skill you’ve not told us.”

Wynne shook her head in disbelief. “You compare me to Flemeth. Flemeth!” She huffed, most of it for show, he could tell. Then she shook her finger at him. “I’ll tell you this much: were I Flemeth, Morrigan’s manners would not have been what they were for most of the Blight. No child of mine would behave so.”

He couldn’t help himself and laughed. “Whatever drove you to try to lecture Morrigan on manners? I honestly thought she was going to turn you into an icicle or set you on fire.”

“I would have set her on fire right back if she had. Thankfully, we managed to come to an accord before that fate befell us. I believe each of us grew during the Blight, not just you. I learned to keep my teaching to myself until asked. Morrigan eventually saw that conducting herself without such a barbed tongue would not be seen as a weakness.” Wynne’s gaze moved past Malcolm to rest on Líadan’s sleeping form. “And Líadan, well. Eventually, she stopped wanting to kill you. I suppose that was progress. I’m sure she was as surprised as you to discover the bond that had formed between you.”

Malcolm turned to look at the woman he’d formally bonded with only the night before, a certain warmth suffusing him at seeing the glint of the silver thread of her necklace that served as a reminder. “Still not sure how that happened. I just... I hope it’s strong enough to survive. This is going to be hard. Denerim is going to be unpleasant, possibly downright nasty, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“You’ll weather it as best you can, and be all the stronger once you’re through it. Your bonding was a good choice, however secret it had to be.” There was a shuffle, and Malcolm glanced back to see that Wynne had risen from her seat. “And if it means anything to you, know that I was proud to stand as witness to your bonding ceremony.” The smile she directed at him was kind, and reminded him quite strongly of Teyrna Eleanor, and to a lesser extent, Fiona. 

“Thank you.” His voice was quieter than he would have thought.

“You are welcome for the truth,” she said. “Now, I will leave you to your vigil. If anything changes for the worse, send someone to fetch me as quickly as possible.”

Malcolm nodded, and then she took her leave. He settled into his chair for a long night, unwilling to slip into the bed and risk falling asleep too soon. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be comfortable, and he divested himself of his armor. A servant knocked on his door some time later, carrying a tray of food, courtesy of the King. He ate absently, not really registering that he was doing so before setting aside the empty dish. Full dark came, followed by the hours until midnight. Tiredness refused to release its grip. Reluctantly, he accepted the need for sleep and crept into the bed. When he put his arm around her, she didn’t respond as she usually would have by curling into him—or, on hot nights, pushing him away so she could sleep without sweating. Instead, she remained still, her breathing even as she slept on. Her lack of movement bothered him, but his need for rest was too insistent to overcome, and he gave in.

When he awoke in the darkness later, he found her still asleep, but that she’d at least shifted from her back to her side. He took that as a good sign, and then wondered if she would sleep past dawn, when they were expected to appear at the Divine’s consecration of the field where the Battle of Highever had taken place. He didn’t want to leave Líadan here alone or with a servant or maybe one of the Wardens, but he felt he owed the respect to the soldiers who’d died in defense of Highever and Ferelden. He moved so he could better see out the window and the moon’s position. Dawn would be soon enough, and he had perhaps an hour or two. The ceremony was to begin when the sun rose into view. Whether he liked it or not, it was time to get out of bed. He sighed as he reached for one of the dwarven waterskins kept by the bed, and then took a few sips to remove the film of sleep from his mouth. With a grumble, he threw back the half of the coverlet that’d been over him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” came Líadan’s voice, rough from her long sleep.

He turned and grinned. “Nowhere, now. You’re awake.”

She pushed herself up with her arms to rest her back against the headboard. “How long?” Her eyes darted to the window before returning to him.

He sat next to her. “Hours.”

“I hope one of you decked the Knight-Vigilant for whatever he did to me.” She ran a hand over her face, and then through her hair before accepting the waterskin Malcolm offered her. “He couldn’t just use a regular smite, could he? Not that I would’ve been happy about that, but whatever skill he did use was even more uncalled for.” Then she drank like she’d been denied water for days.

“Actually, it really was just a regular smite. I accused him of being a templar-mage who’d used a drain life spell. He denied it, of course, but Alistair pressed him for information, as did Hildur, and turns out it wasn’t anything fancy. Just a run-of-the-mill smite. Sorry to disappoint. You aren’t so awesome as to need a super-smite to knock you for a loop.”

She glared at the quilt over her knees, like it had offended her greatly, and dropped the waterskin on the chair next to the bed. “I don’t normally react like that to smites. He must’ve been lying.”

Malcolm did his best not to sound amused. Because she’d come through it safely in the end, he could see the humor in something so ordinary affecting her in ways that would irritate her. “He wasn’t lying. Well, I mean, he could be lying about other things, but he wasn’t lying about the smite. Wynne agreed when she checked on you.”

The glare turned to bewilderment, and then she shifted to seat herself cross-legged opposite him. “Then why would I—what made it so different?” 

“Your, um, your passenger, as it were. Wynne explained that the fatigue it gives you, how it taxes your body to exhaustion, made it so that a smite just took away any and all energy you had left to function with. You had to sleep to replenish it, because even her rejuvenation spells couldn’t restore enough of it. So,” he said, and then motioned toward her abdomen, “you can’t go blaming the templar. You’ll have to blame it.” He frowned, feeling awkward referring to the forming child as a thing, even though it hadn’t yet quickened. “Him or her. Whichever. They’re to blame.”

Líadan mumbled something.

He tilted his head to the side. “Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that, and you’ve developed this adorable yet frustrating habit of saying really important things super quietly. So, what was it you said?”

Her hand worried at the hem of her linen shirt. Then she sighed. “Her.”

He wanted to jump up and shout and run around to tell everyone he knew that he was going to have a little girl. Instead, he held in his elation because it wasn’t really joy unless she shared in it, at least partly. However, holding his silence and every little bit of his happiness was almost physically painful.

When he didn’t say anything, she slowly looked up at him through the hair that had fallen over her eyes, a tiny, troubled smile on her lips. “I’m fairly certain you heard me, but in case you didn’t, you’re going to have a daughter in about six months, according to Wynne.”

Malcolm brought his hands to her shoulders to gently grasp them, not entirely sure how he should be responding. She seemed unnerved at his non-reaction, but he had no idea what would be all right to say. He decided on asking plainly. “Can I be happy? Maybe just for a minute? A moment? I don’t want you to feel bad, but—”

“Go ahead.”

“Really?” A note of his excitement crept into his question. But he had to ask again because he didn’t want her just saying that to appease him if it would hurt her. He could wait to celebrate if he needed to.

“Really. Just because I have issues with this doesn’t mean I want it ruined for you. If you’re so thoroughly happy with the news, don’t hold yourself back. There has to be some happiness in this.”

His hands moved up to cradle her cheeks as he searched her eyes for confirmation. He found it, and his barely hidden smile widened into a grin before he kissed her. The momentum of his enthusiasm carried them backward into the mattress. She let out a squeak of surprise at the impact, making him wonder if she hadn’t really comprehended how happy this made him, provided she wasn’t upset over it. He released her lips to slide downward, lifting her shirt to reveal the expanse of skin over her stomach. It was the first time he’d really given significant attention to her condition. Mostly, even though he’d desperately wanted to look and feel and touch, he held back out of respect for how much it troubled her. He didn’t want her reminded of it too much in the little time she had left to ignore it in an attempt to find peace of mind.

Now, at least for a time, he could do all those things, and so he did. Studied skin he’d thought he’d known so well, wondering how much it would change in the coming months. His fingers lightly followed the tracks of his eyes, down the defined muscles given to her by virtue of being a warrior, toward a curve and very slight swelling that had not been there before. He kissed it, and then rested his hand over it. “You’re showing, you know. Just a little, and I really had to look to see, but it’s definitely there.”

“Creators, really?” Her head snapped up and she looked to where he’d curved his hand.

“I think so. Unless you had a really huge meal within the last half hour, when I wasn’t looking.”

“That wasn’t there earlier. I don’t think.” She sighed and dropped her head back down on the bed. 

He withheld his own sigh. Happy time over, apparently. But at least they’d had that moment.

After a few minutes of wordless disquiet, they both rose and readied for the ceremony. When they were nearly done, Nuala knocked on the door and entered with Cáel awake and cooing in her arms. 

“Maker,” said Malcolm, “he’s a morning person.”

Nuala smiled. “Most babies are.” She handed Cáel to Líadan, who was already exchanging smiles with the boy. This was one of the advantages of having Nuala as Cáel’s nurse instead of Panowen—the Dalish elf already would’ve been on her way out to her clan for the day. Now they got to see and interact with him earlier, and more often. 

After Cáel managed to grab her necklace three times, Líadan passed him over to Malcolm, who’d finished getting ready, including his sword. He’d leave the shield, but he refused to go out to a battlefield—battle over or not—while unarmed. Líadan apparently felt the same, her daggers in place at her hips. Malcolm took note that her armor fit as it had before, so whatever swelling he’d seen earlier really was quite subtle. 

“Anticipating a fight?” Nuala asked, looking between the daggers and the sword. 

“With the Chantry?” asked Malcolm. “Always.”

Líadan scowled. “Let’s just go. They’d probably take offense if we were late.”

They strode out of the room to find Thierry waiting for them outside, which made Líadan’s scowl deepen. Thierry said a mild good morning, and was met with a near-growl from Líadan, who then stalked down the corridor, muttering under her breath.

“Oh, so no hard feelings then,” Thierry said to her retreating form. 

Malcolm stifled a laugh, and noticed Nuala doing the same.

“It isn’t like I want to do this,” the former templar said quietly to Malcolm. “I think it’s stupid and pointless, especially after what happened yesterday. It’s good to see that she’s all right, though, even if she wouldn’t believe it coming from me.”

“You’re a walking, talking embodiment of the Chantry for her at the moment,” said Malcolm. “Even if you’re a full Grey Warden now.”

“I hope she doesn’t hold a grudge.”

“I wouldn’t hold that hope for too long.”

Thierry muttered something in Orlesian that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Outside, the first streaks of pink had painted the morning sky. Every soldier and guard not on duty had formed up in the bailey, under the watchful eyes of the Captain of the Guard. Alistair and Anora stood near the portcullis with Fergus and Cauthrien, and Malcolm moved with his group to join them. On the path that traveled past the front of the gates, citizens of the town and surrounding freeholds were already streaming toward the battlefield. When anyone spoke, either guard or servant, monarch or freeholder, it was in hushed tones, as if afraid the dead they were to pay respects to could hear them. Even Cáel had become quiet, content rest his chin on Malcolm’s shoulder as he took in all the new faces. 

For the Fereldans, Malcolm suspected they really only cared about the Fereldan soldiers who’d died in defense of Highever and their country. To some extent, he knew most people did mourn the dead templars in some way, for loss of life was loss of life. But they hadn’t known them; they’d been the faceless arm of the Chantry trying to crush them. The Fereldans, they’d been friends, neighbors, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers—everyone had lost someone they’d known.

Soon enough, the Orlesian ambassador walked out the keep’s main doors, heading straight for those gathered with the King and Queen. He greeted them with surprising quiet. Malcolm had assumed the man wouldn’t be respectful. Then again, Hilaire was very Orlesian, and the templars who’d died had been his countrymen. His respect was something Malcolm could respect, even if he didn’t respect the man himself. After greeting Alistair and Anora, Hilaire turned to Malcolm. “And good morning to you, Your Highness.”

Malcolm returned the same greeting.

Hilaire’s eyes dropped to the child Malcolm held. “And who’s this?” he asked a bit more loudly than he’d made his greetings.

Cáel turned at the new voice to see the new person, and then smiled at Hilaire. Malcolm barely kept himself from telling his son that, no, he shouldn’t smile at that man because he was Orlesian. But that would’ve been very impolitic, and he’d known Orlesians he liked just fine, like Fiona. Then again, there was a stark difference between Orlesian and _Orlesian_. Malcolm cleared his throat and glanced over at Anora for guidance.

She didn’t seem thrilled at Hilaire discovering Cáel before they’d presented him at the Landsmeet, but they couldn’t do anything about it now. “Tell him,” she said, pitching her voice quieter than Hilaire had his. “They will know soon enough.”

Hilaire looked expectantly at Malcolm.

“He’s my son,” said Malcolm, doing his best not to scowl.

One of Hilaire’s eyebrows practically raced for his hairline. “Really?”

“He certainly isn’t mine,” said Alistair, “and he’s too young to be a bastard of Cailan’s. Given how he looks overwhelmingly like a Theirin, yes, really, he’s Malcolm’s son. Have you any other questions, or shall we get to the battlefield before we’re late?”

Hilaire certainly acted like he had plenty of questions, but merely nodded in deference to Alistair. “No, Your Majesty. You’re quite correct. We should be on our way.”

Silence fell again as they walked out of the gates almost at a march, the guards and soldiers falling in behind them. The Divine waited with her priests and acolytes in the middle of the battlefield, the small stone monument—a polished granite slab inscribed with the dates of the battle, along with a quote from the Chant of Light—already buried in the ground with only the etched face showing. The Divine’s head remained bowed, her hands clasped in front of her stomach. 

“That’s a foot of field where grass will never grow,” Fergus whispered to Malcolm after the teyrn moved to stood next to him. 

“A little bitter, are you?”

“They brought that rock from Orlais and buried it in my field. My Fereldan field. Why they couldn’t at least have had Fereldan stonemasons carve Fereldan granite for the monument, I’ll never know. Oh, wait, yes I do know. They think ours is inferior.”

“I take it back. A lot bitter.”

Fergus’ reply was halted by the sun appearing just over the top of the eastern hills that hid Amaranthine. The Divine raised her hands over her head and finally looked over the gathered crowd. A prayer was made to the Maker, then one to Andraste, calling for Her intercession to see the dead templars to the side of the Maker. Regula then began a sermon extolling the virtues of the templars, and Malcolm did not fail to notice the restlessness that began to worm through the crowd. He felt it himself, wondering when the Divine would deign to mention the sacrifices and worthiness of the Fereldan dead to be at the Maker’s side. 

When the sun had fully risen over the hills to chase away the final dredges of damp night air, the Divine recited a final verse from the Chant. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter,” she said, her voice carrying across the entire field. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. I thus consecrate this ground to become the foundation of a small chantry, lest the sacrifices of these templars be forgotten.” There was a swift closing prayer, and then the dismissal.

Malcolm didn’t move. Neither did Fergus beside him, his anger at what the Divine had done rendering him momentarily speechless. Around them, the crowd milled about instead of dispersing, murmurs weaving through it with tendrils of bewilderment and anger, tied with a common thread of dissatisfaction. No one said anything to the Divine herself as she and her acolytes walked away. But the complaints leveled at her priests and templars as they followed started first as mild, quickly increasing to insults and shouting. If the Divine heard, she did not turn to acknowledge it, and soon disappeared into her pavilion in the distance.

“This is going to get ugly,” said Malcolm.

“I’m not terribly inclined to stop it,” said Fergus.

Cauthrien gave the other teyrn a curt nod. “Nor am I.”

Anora gave Alistair a look that made the King sigh. “Fine, I’ll talk them down.” He motioned for his guards to stay put, then explained to them that the people didn’t want _his_ head. Then he waded through the crowd and up to the monument, which was now consecrated ground. As they watched, Alistair addressed the crowd and gradually managed to talk them down from headhunting to grumbles. Considering the outrage, it was a decent outcome. 

Yet, as the crowd finally wandered away from the field, the underlying anger could be felt simmering just below the surface, waiting for the perfect opportunity to flash over.


	28. Chapter 28

“The Fereldans are a puzzle. As a people, they are one bad day away from reverting to barbarism. They repelled invasions from Tevinter during the height of the Imperium with nothing but dogs and their own obstinate disposition. They are the coarse, willful, dirty, disorganized people who somehow gave rise to our prophet, ushered in an era of enlightenment, and toppled the greatest empire in history. ****

There are a few things you can assume safely in dealing with these people: First, they value loyalty above all things, beyond wealth, beyond power, beyond reason. Second, although they have nothing in their entire country which you are likely to think all that remarkable, they are extremely proud of their accomplishments. Third, if you insult their dogs, they are likely to declare war. And finally, the surest sign that you have underestimated Fereldans is that you think you have come to understand them.”

—Empress Celene I of Orlais, in a letter to her newly appointed ambassador to Denerim

**Meghan**

****Ferelden did not smell too much like wet dog—certainly not as much as the Orlesians claimed. Besides, Meghan was Starkhaven born and bred. Wet dog had nothing on fisheries.

The complaints about the mud, however, had proven quite valid thus far.

She assumed it had rained recently, perhaps just before her ship arrived in Denerim’s reasonably sized port. She hoped, anyway, because this much mud couldn’t be normal. There would be an overabundance of turned ankles and permanently soaked feet, otherwise. Every step she took squelched, even along the city’s main thoroughfares, and she was grateful that the boots she wore with her leathers had been waterproofed like the armor. Nothing could really be done about the bottom edge of her cloak dragging in the mud, but quick observation of others told her mud-lined cloaks were common among the natives, so she did her best to ignore how dirty her cloak had become.

The ship’s captain—an associate of Isabela’s—had directed her toward the Market District when Meghan had inquired about the location of Denerim’s chantry. If she recalled correctly, it was the seat of the Chantry in Ferelden, and the country’s Grand Cleric should be in residence there. Hopefully, Ferelden’s Grand Cleric would not turn out to be like Francesca. Meghan’s confidence in the Chantry had become as tenuous as a crust of ice on the Minanter River, and just as easily broken apart. But she had more familiarity with the Chantry than she did Ferelden’s monarchy, and with having experienced so much strangeness in the past few weeks, she desperately wanted something to feel familiar, to feel like her old life. 

She missed her home.

Shaking herself from the forming melancholy that had taken hold of her far too many times aboard ship, Meghan paid more attention to her surroundings. She had only a few coppers, and if a cutpurse took them, she’d go hungry. Already, she wasn’t sure about where she’d sleep if the chantry didn’t grant her refuge. The Market District was busy, even for midday, the lanes between the various merchant stalls packed with people. Most were nobles or merchants, judging from their clothing. There were some servants as well, dressed in the livery of the houses they served, most likely picking up necessities for their household. It was, she discovered, quite similar to Starkhaven’s market. 

As she wove her way through the crowd, she heard murmurs of a called Landsmeet, and it being the reason for the crowded district. Her schooling reminded her that this Landsmeet was part of Ferelden’s government, conventionally convened four times a year—once per season—or more, if necessary. Since it wasn’t yet autumn, she wondered what the early Landsmeet was for. Ferelden now had a fairly popular king, a competent queen, and she hadn’t heard of any civil unrest after what’d happened during the Blight. She’d have to keep an ear out. It wouldn’t do to be taken by surprise ever again.

When Meghan passed between the two templars guarding the doors of the chantry, she had to repress a shudder, and couldn’t stop from frowning. Since when was she afraid of templars? She was no mage, no apostate, and they shouldn’t be looking for her, especially since Varric had convinced the templars hunting the blood mages she’d been with were dead. Farther inside, she found it less crowded than the market square outside. Near the pews, one sister and a Revered Mother spoke in low tones about a coming group wedding in the Elven Quarter. 

Elven Quarter? What happened to the alienage? Meghan feared for the safety of the elves if there weren’t walls to protect them. Did Ferelden give no thought to the plight of the city elves? They had to be protected, both from without and from within.

Her presence was noticed quickly, and the young-looking Revered Mother broke away from her conversation with the sister to address Meghan. “My name is Mother Boann. Might I help you, my child? If you wish to give a confession, the sisters and brothers are—”

“No confession,” said Meghan, panic threatening to close her throat. Confession wasn’t... she wasn’t even sure what she could confess. Killing that mercenary, maybe. The sound her sword had made when... and how it made her gag and feel relief at the same time, feeling good about another person having died, about having killed someone face to face. She was an archer; archers weren’t supposed to get close. They weren’t supposed to look a person in the eye before they killed them. She never wanted to again, and never wanted to face what she’d done. No, no confession for her.

“Is there something else?” Mother Boann asked without the hint of impatience Meghan would have gotten from any of the priests at the Starkhaven chantry.

“I would like to speak with the Grand Cleric—” She broke off as she struggled to remember the Fereldan Grand Cleric’s name, and came up short. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall—wait, yes I do. Grand Cleric Elemena.”

“Grand Cleric Philippa, now. Grand Cleric Elemena was among those killed at the Battle of Ostagar.” Mother Boann gave Meghan a warm smile, telling her that she was forgiven for not knowing of the previous Grand Cleric’s fate. “I can certainly pass along your request. With the Divine’s impending visit, things have been very busy.”

Meghan nearly jumped. “The Divine? The Divine is coming here?” She wondered if she could try to speak with her, try to appeal for her brother to be released from Chantry service due to being one of the last of his line, aside from her. While she didn’t understand why the Divine would pay an official visit to such a backwater, she couldn’t overlook how it did present an opportunity for her.

“You must not have been in the city long for you to not know. Her Perfection recently landed in Highever, to consecrate a battlefield there, and then she’s to offer an apology to all Ferelden for the mistaken march of her templars on our country. The latest messenger from Highever said to expect the Divine to arrive in the city by the end of next month. I suspect it will be something of a spectacle when she gets here, because the King’s retinue travels with her from the north.”

“An apology from the Divine? That’s remarkable. And quite unexpected, one would think, given history.”

Mother Boann gave her a rueful smile. “So was the Chantry’s unofficial march on Highever. Perhaps the apology will begin to make things even.” She cleared her throat, apparently having noticed how dangerously close to blasphemy she’d gotten. “Now, what was your name, so that I can tell the Grand Cleric?”

“Meghan.” Simple enough. And it wasn’t uncommon for even a Grand Cleric to see the lowest of the low if they came through the chantry’s doors to seek succor in the arms of Andraste’s legacy.  

“Have you a last name?”

It was a fair question, given that many commoners went without surnames, yet just as many freeholders and nobles carried family names. Yet, if Meghan wanted the Chantry’s help, she would have to tell them who she was, or they could never provide proper protection. “Vael.”

To Mother Boann’s credit, her eyebrows raised very little. “I... see. I shall go tell the Grand Cleric at once. Feel free to wait here, or to find a quieter side room. Someone will find you.” Then the Revered Mother trotted off, through one of the many doors leading deeper into the cathedral’s annex, where the living quarters and offices were. 

Meghan, feeling restless and unsure if Mother Boann merely recognized her family name as royalty, or had heard of what’d happened in Starkhaven, opted not to sit. If she sat, she’d fidget, and she didn’t want to betray her nervousness more than she already was. There was also the matter of her grandfather’s bow she’d kept slung on her back, held in place by a makeshift sling one of Varric’s friends had made in the weeks before Meghan had sailed from Kirkwall. Sitting would be difficult with the bow on her back, and she had no desire to remove it. To keep her mind occupied, she headed for the vigil lights at the foot of Andraste’s statue. She considered the candles for a long moment, lulled into a small amount of calm as she watched the flickering flames, and then tossed one of her last few coppers into the offering box. Then she took a taper and lit a votive for Sebastian, for the Maker and Andraste to watch over him and keep him safe, even if he’d ignored his little sister’s letters for quite a few years.

They’d never told her where the Chantry had sent him. It would have been too much for her to know, made it too easy for her to circumvent the precautions they’d put in place to keep her from the bad influence of her elder brother. It would’ve been very good information for her to have, now, considering everyone in their immediate family was dead aside from him and her. 

She’d only just lit the votive when Mother Boann said from behind her, “Her Grace would speak with you now, my child.”

Meghan jumped, nearly dropping the taper in between the rows of flickering votive candles. Considering the amount of work the Grand Cleric must’ve been facing, Meghan realized she was being brought to her rather quickly. She wasn’t sure if this was a good omen or bad, and didn’t want to get her hopes up. They’d been crushed enough lately.

Mother Boann led Meghan into the antechamber and the complex of the cathedral’s offices and monastery’s rooms beyond. It didn’t take long before they were at the Grand Cleric’s study. Traditionally, it was kept as close to Andraste’s shrine as architecturally possible. “Princess Vael, Your Grace,” Mother Boann said after knocking on the door and opening it slightly.

“She may enter,” said the woman Meghan presumed to be Grand Cleric Philippa. 

Meghan walked inside, and then inclined her head as a sign of respect. “Your Grace.”

“My child,” said Philippa, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of her massive desk. “Have a seat.” Once Meghan had sat precariously on the edge of a chair, Philippaasked, “How may the Chantry help you?”

She willed her hands not to fidget. She willed herself to ignore the upwelling of hope within her, though it latter did no good. Despite everything, she felt hope that Andraste’s followers would come through, as she’d been told since she was a child that they always would. Because her family believed so strongly in the Maker and Andraste and her teachings, in the religion formed to continue Andraste’s work after Her martyrdom, they sent a child from every generation to serve as a cleric, either priest or brother. The tradition had caused some discord for generations where children weren’t plentiful—often causing fear of ending the line when the heir was the only one left to inherit while the spare was sent to fulfill the family’s obligation to the Chantry. And if a generation had only one child, Meghan wasn’t sure what would be done. She wasn’t even sure how inheritance would work between herself and Sebastian. If the Chantry saw fit to release him from his vows, then as the elder sibling, he would become Prince of Starkhaven. If the Chantry chose to keep him to his vows, or he chose to remain with the Chantry, Meghan would inherit, instead.

While she’d been in Kirkwall, she’d heard rumors of someone being appointed ruler in the power vacuum left after the deaths of the Vaels. But details had been scarce, and she had no idea which noble family had stepped in.

Yet none of that would matter if she could not find safe harbor. She took a breath and straightened her shoulders. “I came to ask for refuge,” she said.

For a short moment, Philippa seemed to consider Meghan’s request. Long fingers with carefully trimmed nails toyed with her quill before setting it down. Then the Grand Cleric’s eyes met Meghan’s pleading gaze, and Philippa’s eyes looked much like Francesca’s had—determined, without pity, bereft of remorse for what she had chosen.

Hope vanished, and Meghan’s chest felt like it was going to collapse in on itself from the empty space left behind.

“I am sorry,” Philippa said, not seeming sorry at all, “but we have heard what happened with you in Starkhaven. Your pursuers are particularly relentless.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She had a pretty good idea, but she wanted to hear the Grand Cleric say it.

Philippa folded her hands together over her quill. “We cannot help you, child. The danger you pose is too great, as is the risk of aiding you. My chantry’s soldiers are not enough. You must seek aid from the Crown. Their guards and their walls are stronger than ours.”

“And here I thought you had the protection of the Maker, Your Grace.” Meghan thought the least the Chantry could do was share said protection. She could certainly use it. And her family could have. From their demonstrated faith, they _should_ have had it. Yet the Maker had done nothing, and they’d been slaughtered under His gaze.

The Grand Cleric’s lips pursed slightly before she could bring her facial expression back under complete control. “We do. But we also do not seek to rush to the Maker’s side, either. Harboring you would be inviting our eternal end too soon. We have a good king, Lady Vael. He will help you, I’m sure of it.”

Meghan did not fail to notice the change in her title—apparently, someone had claimed the title of Prince or Princess of Starkhaven, and hers had been removed at the same time. The Grand Cleric’s solution was no solution at all. What she knew of Ferelden’s king was little to nothing. Rumors, tales told of the Blight, of things he’d done with Ferelden afterward. His wife, Queen Anora, she did recall from a state visit some years back. But this king was new, and he was no puppet like Cailan, from what she’d heard from reports her father had been given. It stood to reason that a country recovering from a Blight would not be able to risk rendering aid to one such as her. If the Chantry would not help her, how could she expect those under the command of mortal men instead of the Maker to do so?

She couldn’t. And even if she believed she could, Mother Boann had already told her that the King and Queen would not be in residence until the end of the month. It wasn’t like she could go chasing after them. They wouldn’t be holding a formal court in Highever or while they traveled or met with the Divine. Petitions such as hers would have to be made to them here, in the city, when the royal court was in residence at the palace. If she were to even entertain the possibility of asking the King for asylum, she would have to find a way to stay alive in the meantime.

It didn’t seem possible. Having spent one of her precious three coppers on a frivolous prayer for her brother, it left her with two to her name. The Chantry was the place one went for hospitality when one was in need, and they’d rejected her. No other recourse came to mind. With her hand in its current state, she wasn’t much good for work of any sort. She’d heard Ferelden was more open to women participating in martial or manual labor as much as the men. With her archery skills before, she could have possibly joined the city guard, or something of that nature. Not anymore. Two coppers, and weeks to go.

Selling her grandfather’s bow was out of the question. Perhaps it would be looted from her body when they found her dead in a street within a fortnight. Not that the Chantry would care. 

Meghan wondered if her brother had turned into what these Grand Clerics seemed to be. And if he had, she wanted to take back her copper. Then she wondered what would happen if she _did_ take it back. It could mean arrest and jail, which would mean a roof over her head and at least one meal a day. Far less bleak than what she’d get otherwise.

Mostly, though, she wanted to stand up and yell at the Grand Cleric, possibly the Maker, and also Andraste, just for good measure. Instead, she stood up and said, “Thank you for your kindness, Your Grace,” without a hint of irony, before she turned on her heel and walked out of the Grand Cleric’s study.

Behind her, Philippa called, “The Maker watch over you, child.”

Meghan ignored it, truly considering how she’d go about taking her copper back, and possibly the rest of the donation box, too, just in case one copper wasn’t enough to get her tossed into the jail. Then again, she didn’t want to take too much and end up on the gallows, either.

The flickering lights from the candles reflected onto the bright brass of the donation box. Meghan studied it out of the corner of her eye as she stood in front of the votives, noting that the box didn’t even have a lock. Apparently, blatant theft from the Chantry wasn’t a common problem in Ferelden. It was also good for her, because with how clumsy her fingers were, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pick a lock as Sebastian had shown her.

For Maker’s sake, had it really come to this in just a few short weeks?

 _Long weeks_ , the tiredness in her bones told her. _Eternal weeks_ , the unrelenting numbness in her right hand told her. _It will only get worse_ , her despair told her. 

Though she really did think stealing from the Chantry would be fairly hard to beat as lows went. At least she’d have something to work towards afterward, then.

Her arm started toward the donation box, and then she realized she was reaching with her right arm, her _useless_ arm, and let her arm drop back to her side. In order for her to manage this with her left arm, she was going to have to be fantastically brazen about it. Not that she was going for subtlety in the first place. She wanted to be caught.

“You wish to light an offering?” came a quiet question asked by a woman with a heavy Orlesian accent. “If you haven’t any coin, I will make a donation for you. While the Chantry does not require a donation to light offerings, it is terribly awkward to do so without, no?”

Meghan turned to look at her sudden benefactor. “I—yes, I would appreciate it. Thank you,” she said.

The heavily pregnant woman nodded, and then produced two silvers, which she dropped through the slot in the donation box. “I have my own to light,” she said by way of explanation. “For my son. He needs all the prayers and intercessions he can get.”

Meghan wasn’t quite sure who the woman was referring to, and inclined her head toward the woman’s midsection. “Your... son?”

Her hand went to her expansive stomach, which then brought a small, warm smile to her face. “Oh, no. Not this one. I do not even know if it’s a boy or a girl. No. The prayers, they are for my elder child. He is...” She paused, and a slight flush of embarrassment colored her cheeks. “He is a mage. He was taken to the Circle just after the Blight ended.”

“I’m sorry,” said Meghan. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was the way of the world, for mage children were automatically sent to the Chantry. It was unfortunate, and assuredly painful for some families, but it was the way it had to be. From what Meghan had experienced in the past weeks, she could recognize the necessity of the Circles of Magi now more than ever. Part of her even wondered if they were enough, considering what kind of people the mages she’d escaped with had turned out to be. 

The woman’s smile became rueful, and much smaller. “As am I.” Then she gently picked up a taper and lit a votive, her eyes fluttering shut in prayer. 

Meghan studied her for a moment, and then considered her own prayer. They seemed useless, pointless, so much so that she’d considered stealing the donation box. But she suspected this woman had approached and spoken to her for a reason, even if she didn’t know it, and she should make use of what she’d been given. Holding in a sigh, she reached for one of the tapers with her right hand, but her fingers closed too loosely around it for her to lift. It was too thin. She should have known better—it was far thinner than her grandfather’s bow, and she could barely grip that without it falling. 

“You are injured?” asked the woman, who was finished with her prayer.

Meghan grimaced, and then lifted the taper with her left hand. “Old injury. It didn’t heal well. Something about the damage being too much. There’s a chance my hand will work properly again, but the healer didn’t seem terribly enthusiastic about the prospect.” Then again, Enchanter Terrie hadn’t seemed enthusiastic about anything, except for the time she’d taken Meghan to task for resenting mages. Though, Meghan still felt she had a valid grudge. They had tried to kill her and use her blood to power their spells. If that wasn’t worth disliking them over, then the mage had a very skewed perspective. 

The woman looked thoughtful, a finger tapping at her chin before smoothing her skirts. “My husband knows a very gifted healer. Circle-trained, I’m told. She once traveled with the Grey Wardens during the Blight. I believe she is the court mage, now.”

She looked away, toward the candles at Andraste’s feet. “No mages. No magic.” Meghan couldn’t stop the shudder that went through her, even though she knew it would offend this woman. Her son was a mage, after all. If she was praying for him instead of offering thanks at having a mage out of her household, then she must still love him. 

But when she turned back, the woman was slowly nodding. “I understand. Perhaps my husband will know of a more traditional healer. There must be exercises for injuries such as yours, yes? Otherwise, there would be no way for your hand to improve.”

It seemed the woman saw her as someone who needed to be fixed. Meghan didn’t disagree about her hand needing better tending, but with her lack of resources, to think of such a thing was a flight of fancy. “Do not trouble yourself,” she said to the woman. “I haven’t the coin. I have nothing.”

“That much is obvious, from one who could not afford even a copper for the donation box. Worry not. The Maker will provide.”

Somehow, Meghan thought the woman really meant that she and her husband, whoever he was, would provide. While she didn’t want to be indebted to anyone, she didn’t have much choice, either. “Forgive me, but... who are you?” she asked, needing to know this woman who wanted to help her. Clearly, if this woman’s husband knew the court mage, coupled with the finery she wore, she was a member of the nobility.

“Oh! I apologize for my lack of manners.” The woman inclined her head, just barely. “I am Arlessa Isolde. My husband is Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe.”

Meghan nearly jumped in her surprise. She’d suspected a middling noble, not a noble family with the ear of the King. Arl Eamon had been King Cailan’s uncle, and he’d served as chancellor to King Alistair. She did remember that Arl Eamon had retired from that position some months ago, but he still had his hereditary position of arl, as well as a voting place in the Landsmeet. If she could not trust this family with what help they offered, she could trust no one in Ferelden. She inclined her head in return. “Lady Meghan Vael. Formerly a princess, and formerly of Starkhaven.”

“A pleasure,” said Isolde, her facing having brightened. “I had heard rumors of an attack on the Vaels, but I had thought some survived, considering there is still a Vael on Starkhaven’s throne.”

“What? Who?” Had she left someone behind? Had one of her family still been alive? Maybe Corbinian, for he’d been the least visibly injured, as sightless as his eyes had been when she’d tripped over him. Perhaps in the butchery, someone had gone unnoticed, both by her and by the mercenaries.

“A man named Goran Vael, I believe.”

“Goran? _Goran_?” Meghan’s voice rose above a whisper and became strained. “He is an idiot!”

Isolde seemed unperturbed, and merely raised an eyebrow at Meghan’s vehemence. “He is not a close relative, I presume?”

“Distant cousin. He hadn’t even been living in Starkhaven. Last I heard, he was in Orlais. I can’t believe anyone would put Goran in charge of a stable, much less a principality.” He would run Starkhaven into the ground on the back of his foolishness. Everything her family had built, Goran would destroy with his ineptitude. Maker’s blood, this was bad. “But as far as I know, Goran never had aspirations to Starkhaven’s throne. I really can’t see him contracting mercenaries to kill his family, however distant a relation we were. He’s still a Vael, idiot though he might be.”

“Perhaps he is a puppet? It has been known to happen, yes? It would be worth exploring the possibility.”

Meghan sighed. “I haven’t the resources to explore anything, Arlessa Isolde. I only barely eluded the mercenaries in Starkhaven. I don’t know if they’ve followed me here to Ferelden. I came here for refuge, to hide from them until it was safe.”

“Come,” said Isolde, putting her arm gently around Meghan’s shoulders. “I believe my husband and I can provide you with protection. I come here every day to pray for my son. I had noticed you wandering and looking lost in the market. When I found you here and seeming no less lost, I believed the Maker had brought you for a reason.”

For _refuge_ , Meghan thought. She’d come here for refuge within the Chantry. Then again, she hadn’t exactly been specific in her prayers. This woman offered refuge, even if it wasn’t with the Chantry. She allowed herself to be led out of the cathedral and into the thriving market of Denerim. It was a short walk across the square to a large, well-apportioned estate. Guards saluted as they walked inside, and a servant appeared when they walked through the doors. Isolde had just barely dismissed her after giving instructions to prepare a guest room when an older man with a closely trimmed beard burst into the room.

“There you are,” he said to Isolde, either not noticing Meghan or ignoring her. “I’ve been looking for you. Have you heard the rumors?” The outrage on the man’s face told Meghan that the rumors were not welcome. Perhaps they were about him. That sort of thing tended to anger people like this man was.

“You will have to be more specific, husband,” said Isolde, who then motioned to Meghan. “But you are being rude to our guest. We must do introductions first, before we mire her in the rumors of the nobility, yes?”

The man—Arl Eamon, Meghan supposed—drew up short and blinked owlishly at her, as if he’d just realized she was there. “My apologies,” he said after recovering. “I am Arl Eamon Guerrin.”

“Meghan Vael,” said Meghan, inclining her head.

Eamon raised his eyebrow. “Vael?” A frown formed to accompany his eyebrow. “So those rumors were true.”

“If you mean the rumors of my family’s demise, then yes.” Meghan briefly looked away before meeting the arl’s gaze. “It is not an easy subject.”

“One can imagine,” said Eamon. “I welcome you to Denerim, Your Highness.”

“Meghan. At most, Lady Vael. The Chantry informed me that my former titles and styles have been removed.”

Eamon shook his head. “So quickly. Will you be seeking to regain your family’s throne?”

Meghan stared at him. She hadn’t even processed the fact that her entire family was dead, much less contemplate how to regain the throne that was lost. “Not yet.” Her words came out far more quietly than she liked. “I haven’t had time to...” To what? Think? Feel? Act? Everything, it seemed. She hadn’t had time to do anything but run. “I’ve been on the run. I think the mercenaries contracted to kill my family are off my trail, but I can’t be certain. I suppose I can never be certain. However, running from them has been my primary and only objective for weeks. It is difficult to think of...” The images came back, of fog and screams and threats, and she briefly closed her eyes. “It is difficult.” 

“Perhaps now is not a good time to discuss such things, my husband,” said Isolde. “Now, what rumors have caused you to come crashing into the room like some sort of wild animal?”

Admittedly, Meghan was curious. Nobles were usually far more reserved with guests. Eamon had broken protocol rather quickly, so whatever he’d heard must have thrown him.

Eamon’s bright blue eyes squinted in barely repressed anger. “The witch,” he said, throwing both of his arms out. “I knew she would be trouble all along. I knew it. And I’m not referring to the army of templars the Chantry sent to march on Highever to capture her, either. Oh, no, it has to be something worse.”

“Worse?” asked Isolde.

Meghan agreed. The Chantry marching on one of a country’s larger ports would be rather distressing. It didn’t seem to her that much else could be more trouble, save an official Exalted March. Yet that would be cause for alarm more than anger. Or, at least, alarm accompanying said anger.

“Yes.” Eamon started to pace from one side of the room to the other. “The witch is gone, thank the Maker. That’s the one good piece of news out of any of this.” He fell silent, his fuming overcoming his ability to speak.

He was _killing_ her, Meghan decided. Learning the undercurrent of rumors in this country would be a great distraction from her own problems if this arl would actually get around to repeating them. 

Finally, he spoke again. “There’s another Theirin bastard.”

“No,” said Isolde.

Eamon stopped his pacing and spun to face the two women. “Yes. The witch left him behind, supposedly for Malcolm to raise.”

“Could it be a ploy?” asked Isolde, shock still showing plainly on her face.

He shook his head. “I doubt it. Reports already state the boy looks far too much like Queen Moira as a babe for it to be a falsehood. I’m sure we’ll see for ourselves when they all arrive in Denerim for the Landsmeet.”

“They will seek to make him legitimate, yes?” The shock had gone from Isolde’s face, and she’d taken a more contemplative look.

“Mmm. I imagine so. And while I object to yet another Theirin bastard taking a place in the line of succession, beggars can’t be choosers. Theirins are very thin on the ground at the moment, and Calenhad’s bloodline must remain on Ferelden’s throne.” Eamon scowled. “But it will mean magic will truly be introduced to the line. Between Malcolm’s mother being a mage, and now his son’s mother a very powerful mage, the fact cannot be escaped. Magic will run strong in the line of Calenhad.” 

“Then you assume Anora to be barren still?” Isolde asked.

“She had years with Cailan and they had no issue. She’s been Alistair’s queen since Wintersend, and still there’s no sign of her being with child. I wouldn’t get my hopes up. And even if Anora bore an heir, there would still be—” Eamon halted and looked in Meghan’s direction, as if just remembering her presence. “Well, enough of that. Lady Vael doesn’t need to be introduced to the murky depths of Fereldan politics. You look famished, young lady. Come, we’ll have the cook rummage up something for you to eat.”

Meghan followed the Arl and Arlessa of Redcliffe deeper into their estate, wondering what Eamon had kept himself from saying.


	29. Chapter 29

“The kingdom of Ferelden is the southernmost civilized nation in Thedas—although some scholars dispute that claim to civilization.” ****

—from _In the Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ , by Brother Genitivi

**Bethany**

An entire day passed before Bethany or Anders said a word to each other. It wasn’t until halfway into the second day that Anders asked, “You’re bitter, aren’t you?”

Bethany refused to look at him, but did answer. “Of course not. Why would I be bitter about being alive?”

“People come up with all sorts of reasons. I see it all the time in my work.”

She slid a glance over at him. He’d resumed his post leaning against the massive door that morning, one foot braced up against it. “Healing or Wardening?” she asked.

“Both.”

“Did you have a choice?”

His eyebrows raised. “Me? Not really. I’d been recaptured by the templars after my seventh escape attempt from Kinloch Hold. They’d declared me a murderer, even though I wasn’t, and were going to hang me. Some Wardens came by and saved our asses from a band of darkspawn—well, not Biff, but it was more stupidity that killed him—saw what I could do, also agreed those particular templars were stupid, and conscripted me right out from under their noses. I was quite grateful. They did me a favor.”

For Bethany, it just didn’t follow. Anders didn’t sound bitter about the Wardens in general. Yes, he sounded quite bitter about the Deep Roads, but that was understandable. But the organization itself, and especially how he spoke of the Wardens he used to work with in Ferelden, it just didn’t match up that he’d up and leave them for Kirkwall, of all places. It made no sense to her. “Then why leave?”

His gaze moved to look out into the main thoroughfare of the Deep Roads, where it quickly dimmed into a gaping dark tunnel. “It was time.”

“So that oath you spoke before, it didn’t mean anything?”

He grimaced. “It did, when I said it. When it was said to me. But, later, other things took precedence, and I left. I’m not proud of it, but it needed to be done, so that I could do other things.”

“Running an underground healing clinic in Darktown is a higher calling than the oath you gave the Grey Wardens?”

“You know as well as I do the real reason why that particular oath cannot be forsworn. I’ll return. I just have... things to do.”

“Things to do.” She repeated his words to get more of an explanation from him, but he didn’t seem inclined to give it. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and stared into the darkness before them.

So they went another full day without talking. The monotony was slightly broken up by an attack from above by thaig crawlers, but their combined magic made short work of the spiders. A bunch of little ones followed the big ones, and Anders set them on fire. As he watched them scurry away, carapaces aflame, he laughed. One spun and ran straight at him, still on fire, and Anders laughed more. He laughed so much that it nearly made it to his foot before Bethany froze it so she wouldn’t have to treat him for whatever poison thaig crawlers had. Then she spent a couple hours glaring at him while he intermittently chuckled to himself. She really wanted to ask him what in the Maker’s name was so funny, yet she wasn’t willing to be the first to break the silence.

Then boredom caught up with her after the third day, and she gave up. “Is being a Warden always this boring?” she asked. 

Anders had long given up standing as they waited, and instead sat at the base of the door, his legs stretched out and crossed in front of him. “It’s either spectacularly boring or incredibly exciting and dangerous. There never seems to be a middle ground.”

Bethany pushed away from the door so that she could turn to study it. “They’re experiencing the exciting bit, I take it?”

He shrugged as he added another sprig of dried elfroot to the poultice he’d been working on. “It’s been three days. They’re probably dead by now.”

“Oh.” She felt like an ass. Talking and thinking bitterly as she had, and meanwhile, brother and sister Wardens had met their deaths. 

Anders smiled up at her, a little, rueful one. “It isn’t as bad as you think. Better than going on a Calling.”

The reminder of the manner of her death made her frown. “Do we have to end our lives that way? I... I understand wanting to avoid becoming a ghoul, believe me I do, but a Calling doesn’t seem much better. I really don’t like the idea of my body and my bones in the Deep Roads forever. And if my body isn’t burned, a demon could use it. I’m not partial to that, either. I spent my life making sure a demon couldn’t possess me. I don’t want that ruined as soon as I’m dead.”

He had a strange expression on his face, one she couldn’t identify. “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” he said at length. “I suppose something else could be arranged.” Then he tied up the poultice before tossing it over next to his pack in their makeshift campsite. “We should seal up this door and get going. We’ve waited a bit longer than we should have. Eventually, the darkspawn will figure out we’re here. Especially without a pack of more experienced Wardens to draw their attention from us.” Anders stood and stretched before walking over to his pack and taking out a small grimoire. Bethany had seen him reading it occasionally as they’d waited, wondering if it was his or one he’d come across.

“Yes, this will work,” he said after flipping a few pages and scanning the one he’d chosen. “Short, quick, and should hold for five years. Seven, if we’re lucky. Decade at most.” He strode over to where she stood and handed the leather bound volume to her. “Have a look. Tell me what you think.”

After even a cursory glance at the spell, Bethany recognized how well it would do for what they intended. She quickly studied it before the two of them made preparations, packed up their camp, and then cast the seal. Once they had their packs on and Anders had taken out the map Stroud had given them, she hesitated, glancing back at the door.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you think we should say something?”

Anders nodded. “I suppose we should.” He stared hard at the door they were about to leave behind. “ _Atrast nal tunsha_ , brothers and sister,” he said after a moment. “May you always find your way in the dark.” Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction, his face clouded with emotions Bethany couldn’t begin to name.

It took them days to reach the surface, but Bethany couldn’t say how many by the time they did, stumbling and blinking in the flood of light. The greenery of the forest beyond the small clearing was welcome after innumerable days in the dank night of the Deep Roads. 

They were in the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains, Anders told her, somewhere in the middle of the Planasene Forest. Bethany suggested just heading back to Kirkwall, for no one else really needed to know she’d become a Warden. Only the group of Grey Wardens who’d died within the ancient fortress had known she’d gone through the Joining. Them, and Anders. She could go on living like she’d never become one.

Bethany mentioned her idea to Anders.

He slowly shook his head at her suggestion. “I can’t let you do that.”

She clenched her hands into fists and nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “Why not? You, of all people, won’t let me leave? I can’t believe you!”

He sighed, as he’d done an awful lot with her. “Look, if you want to leave in a year or two, I doubt they’d force you to stay. But this is new to you. A lot changes when you become a Grey Warden, more than you think you know. You can’t just take the Joining and go on your merry way. You really do need to be around other Grey Wardens for a while to learn how to deal with everything. I’m not going to cut you loose just so you can flail about and lose yourself.” He shook his head again in a short, resolute motion. “No. I’ll bring you to Amaranthine like I told Stroud I would. This is necessary, Bethany. If, after a year, you want to take a break, then do so. Come visit me and yell at me, if you need to.”

“You’re going back to Kirkwall, then?”

“I have my clinic.”

“Right, your clinic. The all-important work that made you leave the Grey Wardens.”

He didn’t take her bait. Instead, he checked the map, checked the position of the sun, picked a direction, and started off at a brisk pace. She stared after him, in amazement of his confidence. Most mages she knew—herself included—knew nothing about land navigation, or any sort of navigation. The sole reason she didn’t get lost in Kirkwall was because she only followed routes she’d taken many times with Marian.

“You know where we’re going?” she asked, hurrying a little to catch up with him.

“Cumberland.”

“And you know how to get there how?”

He didn’t look back at her. “After escaping from the Circle the first couple of times, I learned how to navigate. Then after I joined the Wardens, one of the fellow Wardens I traveled with was Dalish. Before she became a Grey Warden, she was a hunter. She taught me a little. That, and we actually traveled through this very forest, from Cumberland to Sundermount.”

Speaking of his life before Kirkwall had added warmth to Anders’ voice, and it made Bethany wonder yet again why he’d left. He’d obviously enjoyed it, at least when he’d been with the Fereldan Wardens. It was clear he missed those he’d left behind. It just made no sense. And though she pressed and prodded and poked for a clear answer as they journeyed to Cumberland, he never gave her a straight answer. 

As they traveled, just the two of them, she began to notice how Anders occasionally seemed to disappear within himself, even in the middle of conversations. Sometimes in those moments, she thought she could see a faint blue glow from under his skin, like the time when he’d threatened her in his clinic. She tried to brush it off as a figment of her imagination, but she kept seeing it.

Then she remembered, as she watched the Fereldan shore slip by from her spot on the ship’s deck, that Anders was a spirit healer. Father had told her of those types of healers, how gifted they were. They often called upon spirits, not demons, of course, to help with their healing. Perhaps a spirit had decided to linger a bit with Anders, or hopped over for short chats. Maybe. But being hounded by a stubborn spirit couldn’t be much better than being dogged by a stubborn demon. Merrill had even once said that demons and spirits were really one in the same. It all depended on their motivations, both the mage’s and the spirit’s. Merrill had then very solemnly explained that a pride demon had been after her since Sundermount, and if Bethany or Marian noticed her acting strangely, for them to put an end to her before she could hurt anyone.

They agreed, but neither of them were thrilled at the prospect. No mage wanted to see another fall prey to a demon, and no one wanted to be a puppet or witness their friends become one. She wondered what would happen if a spirit, supposedly benevolent, like those that aided healers, were to take a mage’s body. Would they truly be an abomination? What would they do? Instead of the evil things a demon would do, would they engage in random acts of kindness across the land?

Would that be a bad thing?

Perhaps it would for the mage in question. With a Fade spirit in their body, she couldn’t fathom how the mage would keep intact his sense of self. 

Yet, what if a nice spirit possessed an evil mage? For instance, instead of the pride demon she’d learned had taken the rebellious mage Uldred at the Fereldan Circle, it had been a spirit of hugs? It would be hard to argue the wrongness of that. Well, maybe if you didn’t like hugs. Fenris would probably find plenty wrong with it. Though him decrying said being as an abomination of hugs was more laughter inducing than it was fear inducing. The idea took hold and she began to giggle at imagining it.

“What are you laughing at?” Anders asked. At some point, he’d moved to stand next to her, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Bethany did her best to regain her composure. “I was thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of?”

“Well, it was an entire line of thought,” she said, not wanting to get into the specifics because directly confronting Anders about even a benevolent spirit possession seemed like a bad idea while alone, “but I’ll spare you the details of how I got there. The end result was that I was imagining a mage possessed by a spirit of hugs, and what Fenris would do when faced with it.”

“I imagine there would be a lot of scowling. Condemnations. Accusations. More scowling, with a bit of brooding thrown in.” Anders started to laugh. “Maker, if only we could have that happen, just to _see_ his reaction.”

The laughter took her again. “I know!” And for a little while, she was able to forget she’d become a Grey Warden, was able to forget that she didn’t know how her sister and her brother and her friends were faring on their own expedition, was able to forget that she had no idea if or when she’d see her mother again. It was nice, she decided, to forget.

Anders didn’t go with her into Amaranthine. He remained on the ship, after quietly explaining that if he disembarked, he’d have a hard time leaving Ferelden again. So he assured her he’d bring her letter to her mother and that he’d explain everything he could to Leandra, in order to help her understand what had become of Bethany. He handed her a packet of information he’d gotten together, gave her a purse heavy with coin that Stroud had given him, and told her to find Warden Commander Hildur at Vigil’s Keep. Then he paused. “At least I think it’s Hildur. I know she’d been training Nathaniel for eventually taking over her position, but I doubt she’d have handed it over that quickly. But I believe if you ask for Hildur, and Nathaniel’s in charge, they’ll still know you need to see the Warden Commander.”

She carefully tucked the papers, most importantly the letter from Stroud, into one of her pockets. “Is there anyone else I should speak to? Anyone you want to send a message?”

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it and closed it. “No.” The sadness in his answer told her just how much he wanted to say the opposite.

“The people you’ve told stories about... they won’t be angry?”

“Oh, they will.” He gave her a wry smile. “Definitely will. But I can’t explain it to them, so I think it’s better I say nothing. They’ll like you just fine, though. Just be yourself.”

She straightened. “I’m not nervous.”

“Of course not.” He glanced over at the dock. “You should get going.”

“I suppose I should.” She scuffed her feet on the deck. Then, even though she was still somewhat angry, she gave up and hugged him because he was her friend and her last connection to her family. “Give one of these to Marian for me, but... warn her first, or she might do mean things to you.” She moved apart from him. “Oh, and yell at Carver for me. Lots. Because he’s a git for joining the templars and he should be reminded of it as much as possible.”

The last goodbye was awkward, and both were grateful when it was over and she was off the ship. As soon as she was away from the docks and the briny scent of the sea, she could smell home—mud from recent rains, the faint whiff of dogs whenever a mabari walked by with its master, fresh bread baking, incense from the chantry. They were smells she’d encountered very rarely in Kirkwall, and never together, like here in her home country.

She hadn’t thought she’d ever return to Ferelden. Despite all she and Marian had done to hide their abilities, she had assumed the templars would have eventually found them and dragged them to the Circle. If she’d had her druthers, she probably would have picked Kinloch Hold over the Gallows, even after hearing about what happened at Kinloch Hold during the Blight. And now, well, she was free of the Circle forever, so long as she stayed with the Wardens. Leave, Anders had told her on the ship, and you become an apostate again, which meant you were fair game for the templars. Taking a short leave wasn’t a problem, because Warden Commanders could give letters of permission to ward off the Chantry. Yet even then, the Chantry might act first, and could even ignore the letter, meaning she’d have to wait for the Wardens to hear and then come fetch her. Which they would, Anders had assured her. The Grey Wardens didn’t take kindly to Chantry interference, especially when it came to their precious mages.

In addition to the letter that Anders had given her, to be used in the event of Stroud’s death in the fortress, he’d also sketched out a rough map to get her from the city to Vigil’s Keep. Since the directions primarily consisted of “travel south on the main road until you see a huge castle,” she probably could have done without the map. But Anders had drawn a doodle of Ser Pounce eating Knight-Commander Meredith at the bottom of the page, and so she kept it.

She reveled in the familiarity of the Fereldans as she walked through the city, eternally grateful that no one here said ‘serah’ or ‘messere.’ Thank the Maker. Since it would take the better part of a day or longer to get to Vigil’s Keep because she was on foot, she kept an eye out for possible merchants heading there who she could ride with, provided she had the coin to pay. She found one possibility at the stables outside Amaranthine, hitching up oxen to a wooden wagon in preparation to leave. Even if they were just headed south, a ride would be useful. She stepped forward once the dwarf was finished with the oxen. “Excuse me,” she said, raising a hand to draw his attention.

He turned and looked at her expectantly. When she didn’t say anything more, he huffed. “There are two things I’m here for—travel or trade. Which is it?”

“What?”

“Which is it you’re after?”

Quite forthright, this man. “Oh, um. Travel, depending on where you’re headed.”

“Denerim. You?”

“Vigil’s Keep.”

He took a second look at her, this one more appraising than the last. “Grey Warden?”

“New. Just assigned.”

His countenance became just a little more open, and he went from imposing to somewhat friendly. “Be happy to give you a ride to the Vigil at a discount. Ten silvers. We should be there by the end of the day. With luck, I can trade there, as well, and they’ll provide me with lodging. Could be our lucky day, young lady.” Then he smiled and held out a hand. “Tegrin. Some folks call me ‘Old Tegrin,’ but as you can see, I’m not so old.”

She firmly shook his hand. “Bethany.”

The ride was pleasant enough. Tegrin seemed content to chat about recent events once he’d learned she’d been a refugee in Kirkwall since the beginning of the Blight. She’d known about the Chantry’s march on Highever to capture some Witch of the Wilds rumored to have traveled with the princes during the Blight. Bethany had heard many rumors of witches in the Korcari Wilds when she’d lived in Lothering, but it was always about an old woman, not the young woman the rumors described. Tegrin claimed to have met them once in a mountain pass, and confirmed the witch a young woman, and certainly not an old hag. “Heard there was a dragon in the battle,” said Tegrin. “That took me by surprise.”

Bethany wasn’t impressed. “Of course there was a dragon. They were fighting the Archdemon, which is a tainted dragon.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know that. I was talking about the battle with the templars, where Teyrna Cauthrien’s army smashed them from the rear, with the aid of a dragon setting only the templars on fire, and not the Fereldan soldiers. Funny, I thought. Dragons usually don’t pick sides. They just rampage through whatever and whoever they come across.”

“Maybe the dragon wasn’t a dragon.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “How do you mean?”

“I met a dragon once. Flemeth. The Dalish called her _Asha’belannar_ , but I think she was a Witch of the Wilds. We saw her on Sundermount.”

“Now you’re just telling tales, Warden.”

“I swear it’s true. She helped us escape from Lothering to Gwaren.”

“ _Tall_ tales, Warden.”

She waved her hand in dismissal. “Fine. Believe what you want. Doesn’t change the truth.”

Tegrin went back to mindless chitchat. She didn’t mind; she’d had enough of deep subjects of discussion with Anders and the other Wardens. A respite between the others and joining the new ones at the Vigil, as Tegrin had called it, was nice. Soon enough, in the late afternoon, Tegrin motioned toward the mountain, and the towering castle that looked to be more a fortress built right into it. “Vigil’s Keep.” He smiled at her awe. “Dwarves rebuilt it after it was attacked last year during the beginning of the Thaw. Those walls will never come down, now. You can be sure of it.” Then he flicked the reins, shouted a command, and the oxen swung and turned into the road leading straight to the Vigil’s gates. 

A guard clad in silverite armor waved them through, obviously familiar with Tegrin. A messenger had apparently been dispatched, because by the time they were outside the stables, a different guard accompanied by a similarly armored older man approached the wagon. “That’d be the seneschal there,” Tegrin said quietly to Bethany. “Varel, I believe is his name. Sounds gruff, but he’s actually quite reasonable.”

“Ah.” Bethany found herself intimidated, which surprised her. She hadn’t expected that. A bit of nervousness due to her trepidation at beginning an entirely new part of her life, sure, but not intimidation. 

Tegrin nudged her. “You should get going, young Bethany. We’re not going to the same sorts of circles in this place. I’m but a merchant, while you’re one of the illustrious Grey Wardens. Your life awaits.” Amusement twinkled in his eyes, and Bethany wondered if the dwarf knew about the shortened lifespan of Grey Wardens. 

Probably. The dwarves seemed to know more about the Wardens than other people who lived on the surface. She sighed, bid farewell to Tegrin, and jumped down from her seat in the wagon. The seneschal exchanged nod with Tegrin before the dwarf disappeared with his oxen into the stables. Then the older man turned his attention to Bethany. “I am Varel, Seneschal of Vigil’s Keep,” he said, sounding as gruff as Tegrin had mentioned. “Who might you be?”

“Bethany,” she said, willing her voice not to shake, and standing up straight and tall like her mother had encouraged. _You are the daughter of an Amell, my dear. You are rightly nobility. You should carry yourself like it. Square those shoulders. Lift that chin. There._ “Bethany Hawke. I’m, um... I’m a new Warden.” While she could stand like a member of the nobility, she certainly couldn’t speak like one. She rifled through her pockets at seeing Varel’s unconvinced expression. “I have a letter. And they gave me an amulet, after my Joining.” She looked up once she had the letter in hand, extending it toward the seneschal. “Oh, and I was also told to ask for Warden Commander Hildur. Um, Anders told me.”

Varel blinked in disbelief. “Anders? Did you say Anders?”

“Yes? On the tall side, mage, blond hair usually pulled back, had a predilection for escaping from the Circle?”

“That would be Anders, ser,” the guard next to Varel said.

Varel sighed. “Obviously, Captain.” Then he turned to Bethany. “All right, follow me. The Commander can figure out what to do with you, because I haven’t the slightest idea.”

The three of them slowly wove their way through the winding corridors of Vigil’s Keep, and Bethany did her best not to gape. This place was larger than many of the structures in Kirkwall, probably even bigger than the Viscount’s Keep, possibly even the chantry. They went up a couple stairwells, crossed more hallways, to eventually arrive at a heavy wooden door that looked much the same as all the others they’d passed. Varel made three sharp raps, and a female voice told him to enter.

Varel walked in first, and then the captain—Garevel, as he’d introduced himself as they went through the Vigil—motioned for her to follow, while he brought up the rear.

A dwarven woman sat behind an expansive desk, and she seemed to perk up on seeing Bethany. “Oh, Varel. You’ve brought me someone? Who’s this?” She brushed her short brown hair out of her face as she waited on Varel’s answer.

“This is Bethany Hawke, Commander. She claims to be a Grey Warden.” Varel still didn’t sound very convinced of the veracity of Bethany’s claim.

“I have a letter,” said Bethany, knowing she sounded more indignant than before. 

“She also claims to know Anders.”

“The letter isn’t from Anders, by the way.” Bethany figured that fact should be made clear.

Hildur’s eyes fairly lit up at the mention of Anders. “You know Anders? Where is he?”

Bethany frowned. “On a ship on the Waking Sea? Probably headed for Kirkwall. He has a clinic there.”

“Should we send a group to fetch him?” asked Varel.

“No.” Hildur sighed. “He’ll come back when he’s good and ready. He’s too good at escaping to bring him back when he doesn’t want to be here. Nice to know he’s alive, though.” She returned to Bethany. “Mind if I see that letter?”

She handed the letter over to the Warden Commander, who cracked open the seal and read it fairly quickly. “This is interesting. Not normal for new Wardens to just... drop in.”

“Not literally,” said Bethany.

Hildur chuckled. “I think I like you. I say we keep you.” She looked at Varel. “Go ready one of the rooms set aside for Wardens. On a separate floor from the other group of new Wardens, if you could.” Varel nodded and then departed the study, Garevel at his heels, which allowed Hildur to give her full attention to Bethany. “How do you like your new career?” the Commander asked as she folded up the letter.

Bethany wondered if this were a trick question. “Stroud said it was a calling.”

“Stroud is...” Hildur sat back, pressing her fingers together. “He’s Stroud. For _him_ , it was a calling. For most of us, it’s our job, but we try not to let it run our entire lives. Gets too grim if we do that. So what kind of new Warden are you? Happy to be here? Bitter? Angry? Thrilled to be out of the hands of the Chantry forever?”

Bethany couldn’t help but smile at the last question. “Admittedly, I’m pleased that the Chantry can’t touch me. However...” Her smile faded, remembering how little choice she’d had in the Deep Roads, and how little she’d known before she’d made the choice. She hadn’t been given fair warning for how becoming a Warden would affect her. What it _really_ meant.

“Ah. Bitter, then.” She waved off Bethany’s protests before they even got started. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m used to it. I’m more shocked when we have happy recruits, honestly. People tend not to be terribly thrilled when they find out what the Joining is, and then tend to get angry when they find out all the other caveats of being a Grey Warden. For better or worse, you’re normal. Probably not something a mage hears very much, do they?”

“No, can’t say that it is.” She was astounded at how different this Hildur was from Stroud. Despite her bitterness about being a Warden, she couldn’t help but like this woman. She supposed that was part of what provided strength to Hildur’s affinity for command. 

Hildur nodded, and then resumed sitting up straight. “Well, the part about keeping you? I lied. Not that I don’t like you! I do. The problem is we haven’t any mages here, and I’ve no idea how to gauge how good or bad you are, and I definitely have no idea how to train you.”

Bethany, who’d started contemplating the floor, looked up in surprise. “You don’t have any mages?”

“No. They seem to run away—like Anders—or die, like a couple others have in the past months. Actually, that kind of sounds like how it goes in those Circles of yours.”

“They’re no Circles of mine.” She still felt proud at being able to say that. Father had kept her away from the Chantry his entire life. While she’d been an apostate, she’d still been trained well, and had never had to step foot in a Circle.

“Or mine.” Hildur grinned, easily disarming Bethany’s ire. “Anyway, Wynne’s in Denerim, so you’ll go there.”

“Is Wynne a Grey Warden?”

Hildur outright laughed. “Ancestors, no! But close enough. She’ll do.”

“Do you have _any_ mages in the Fereldan Wardens?”

“Other than you? Just one. And she isn’t a very good mage.”

Bethany narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out how that even worked. “Then why is she a Warden?”

For the first time, Hildur seemed slightly irritated. “Just because she isn’t a good mage doesn’t mean she can’t kill darkspawn. She kills them like the rest of us magic-less louts. Sure, it isn’t as sparkly as your spells, but it gets the job done.” Then the Commander’s good humor returned. “Anyway, she’s a shit mage, so she can’t teach you mage stuff, either. I’m not even sure if you’ll get along with her. She can be a bit... forceful.”

“My sister is forceful.”

Hildur cocked her head to the side. “Did you happen to get along with your sister?”

“She forced me to become a Warden.”

“So that’s a no.” She clapped her hands together. “Well, this’ll be fun. I still have to send you to the Denerim compound, even if you’ll butt heads with Líadan. Wish I could watch it, but I have duties up here.”

The name sounded familiar to Bethany, aside from hearing tales about the end of the Blight. Then she remembered Anders telling Merrill about Merrill’s clanmate who’d become a Grey Warden. This Warden mage in Denerim had to be her. 

But before she could ask Hildur, the door burst open and a red-bearded dwarf blew in. “Heard you got yourself a new Warden, Aeducan,” he said, and then indicated Bethany. “This her?”

“Yes,” said Hildur. “Oghren, just for that interruption, you can be the one to show her around, and then bring her to the main hall for dinner. I need to get a message out to Weisshaupt about the fortress Stroud was investigating, and about Stroud’s death.”

Oghren squinted. “Do I know this Stroud?”

“No.”

“So no excuse to drink to his memory?”

Hildur looked at him in askance. “Since when have you needed an excuse?”

“Good point.” He looked at Bethany and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, let’s get you some food.”

Bethany shot Hildur a look that asked _how could you be doing this to me already when I’m so new?_ But Hildur just smiled in response, and Bethany was left with no choice but to follow this Oghren fellow.

He turned out to be nice enough, if lacking in manners. From everything he said, he clearly enjoyed being a Grey Warden, and thought highly of most of his fellow Fereldan Wardens. She took that as a good sign. The evening meal was almost typical of what was usually found in a noble household—her mother had explained enough to her as a child so she’d know how to conduct herself, just in case—the only difference being that no one waited to start eating. That, she knew, was practicality drawn from the Warden appetite. No need to delay food for any of them out of propriety in their own home.

She felt mostly at ease around Oghren, but many of the other Wardens somehow set her on edge. The qunari they called Sten intimidated her because of his size, and the reminder of the qunari in Lowtown, but he didn’t set her on edge like many of the others. When she quietly mentioned this to Oghren, he asked, “You’re one of those twitchy mage-types, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “Though I’m not really twitchy.”

He shrugged. “You are now, aren’t you?”

“All right, I’m not usually twitchy.”

“Heh. Fair enough, I suppose.” He indicated the table near them, filled with Wardens who all looked relatively young, though some of their skin was sallow, as if they were suffering from an illness. A couple of them had trembling hands when they reached for a cup. “They’re templars. Used to be. They still have the skills, but they’re not under the Chantry’s command anymore. Hildur scooped ‘em up after the last battle.”

“Templars?”

“Sure as stone.”

Bethany stood up and walked out of the hall. She rounded a corner and plowed straight into Hildur, who she’d been searching for in the first place. The collision didn’t send either of them to the ground. Hildur, on her part, didn’t even move. Bethany stumbled backward. Before she even regained her footing, she said, “Templars!” 

“Where?” Hildur made a show of looking around them. “No templars.”

“In there.” Bethany waved her hand in the vague direction of the main hall. “Who are _Grey Wardens_. How am I supposed to serve with them? They’re the kind of people who hunted my father, who hunted me and my sister.”

“Oh, those templars.” Hildur nodded. “Not really templars. They’re full Wardens now, and currently being weaned from lyrium—not pleasant, mind you—and evaluated to make sure they’re really done with all the human Chantry doctrine.”

“They could still be templars at heart.”

“Possibly.” Then Hildur smiled up at her. “Why do you think I’m sending you to Denerim?”

“So I could be trained by a mage?”

“And so you wouldn’t be surrounded by templars you’re supposed to call brothers and sisters. Works out for both.”

“Oh.”

Hildur considered her for a moment. “How do you feel about dropping your indignation for now and going to finish dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Bethany found it difficult to argue with that sort of reasoning, so she followed her commander back into the main hall.


	30. Chapter 30

“One story says he tracked down Marterel the Elusive, the only one of Aldenon’s apprentices who was never captured. Calenhad managed what the templars could not and found the mage. He asked Marterel where Aldenon had fled to, but Marterel refused him. The next night, the king asked again, and was again refused, so he began to tell Marterel his whole life’s story. After a full week, the king reached the end of his tale and Marterel heard the regret in the king’s words. So the mage broke his solemn vow and told Calenhad where his old master had gone. Calenhad thanked him and left to find his truest friend.” ****

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Bethany**

****“These are very good robes,” Bethany said to Oghren, who’d brought her down to where the Grey Wardens kept their stores of supplies. Hildur had made note that Bethany’s own robes were subpar compared even to standard Warden wear, and along with that, were beyond saving after the prolonged trip in the Deep Roads.

Oghren grunted. “Wardens kit us out pretty nice, I admit. They also let you wear whatever armor you want, provided it’s decent enough. They’ve been encouraging us lately, especially you mage-types, to wear official Grey Warden stuff, though. Something about the griffons keeping you away from the Chantry and their sticky fingers. And their new stuff is better than pretty much anything we had before.”

Despite the tattered condition of her current robes—so tattered that they couldn’t be worn, and she was left to wear linen clothing a Silver Order knight’s wife had lent her—she was attached to them. Her father had helped her obtain them, advising her on which enchantments to choose for them that would enhance her own natural strengths. However, she did have other memories of her father, and he certainly would want her to have the best available protection if she were going to be fighting darkspawn for a living. “Well, when you put it that way, I really can’t argue about switching.”

“Nope.”

She cleared her throat when the dwarf made no move to vacate the room. “You mind?”

He grinned and leaned against the wall. “Not at all.”

“Well, I do.”

“Fine. Ruin all the fun. I’ll be waiting outside. When you’re done, I can give you a tour.”

Bethany wasn’t exactly sure, from Oghren’s tone, what the tour would be _of_ , but if it got him out of the room for now, she’d take it. After Oghren walked out, Bethany made sure to drop the bar behind the door. Not taking chances seemed to be a prudent idea. Even then, she made sure to change as quickly as she could, grateful that she knew how to wear these types of robes, which really weren’t robes at all. Gambeson under a brigandine, proper Fereldan leather breeches that offered more protection than what was typically worn under robes, sturdy Fereldan boots, and a tabard that seemed to be a type of scale-mail done in Warden colors—how had they managed _that_?—just in case onlookers didn’t notice the griffin sigil on each piece.

At least she felt better in knowing she was better armored than Carver, for the time being. It was far better than what templar recruits were issued. She almost wished he could see, just so she could revel in his jealousy. 

Her brother, a templar. Honestly. Some twin he was.

A knock sounded on the door as she was folding up the borrowed clothing. “You’re too late; I’m already dressed,” she said.

“Too bad,” said Oghren. “But that wasn’t what I was knocking about. The boss wants to see you in her study when you’re done.”

“What for?”

“Stone knows. Just skip on up there at a good pace. She gets impatient when folks are overly late. And you don’t want her impatient. I’ll be out sparring. Need to hit stuff. Come find me when you’re done with the boss.”

Bethany placed the folded clothing over her arm, and then lifted the bar behind the door. From what she’d seen so far, Hildur didn’t seem much the impatient type. In fact, she’d displayed enormous amounts of patience in the mere night and morning Bethany had been at the Vigil. However, testing her theory didn’t seem like the brightest of ideas. She quickly handed the clothing off to a servant to wash and return to its owner, asked for directions to the Commander’s study, and headed up.

When she arrived, she found the Warden Commander speaking in low tones with an elf who had tattoos of Dalish design on her face. They were different than Merrill’s, but shared some of the same elements. This woman, however, possessed a countenance quite dissimilar to Merrill’s cheery one. This elf looked very displeased, her talking having risen to shouting, while Hildur’s speech remained calm. Then the Dalish threw her hands up as she made a sound of frustration before stalking out the door without a backward glance.

Bethany barely managed to get out of the way, and as she stared after the elf, she asked, “Who... who was that?”

“Líadan,” Hildur said as she settled into her chair behind the desk. “She’s the mage I told you about last night. You’re going with her and some of the other Wardens to Denerim.” Once in her chair, the Commander picked up one of the many papers scattered across the top of the desk.

“Me? With her?” Maker, that elf had scared her in less than a minute. There was no way she wanted to spend a significant amount of time with that woman without Hildur as a buffer she could physically cower behind. “What about you?”

“I’m going to Kinloch Hold to fetch more mages since we’re running awfully low, especially when one of you can’t so much as heal a splinter.” Hildur looked up from the paper she’d been skimming. “Not you. Her. She can’t heal shit.”

“Is that what she was mad about?”

“This time? No. This time she didn’t want to have to continue traveling with the King’s retinue, and by extension, the Divine’s. I told her to suck it up. She told me where to stick it. But she’ll go. Probably also apologize later for yelling.”

Bethany dropped into one of the available chairs, her head reeling. Anders had been right; Wardens were either very busy or very bored. Here in Ferelden, busy seemed the norm for the time being. “King? Divine?”

“Former is a monarch, and the latter heads the Chantry. As for your actual question, I suspect a messenger will be along shortly.”

True to Hildur’s prediction, a squire rushed in soon after, waving his hands about. The Commander looked more perturbed than anxious or excited when the squire told her the King’s retinue was approaching the gate. “At this very moment!” he said at the end.

“I know,” said Hildur.

As the first messenger stared, a second cleared his throat from where he’d skidded to a stop in the doorway.

Hildur sighed. “And what ill-begotten news do you bring?”

The young page gave her a funny look before saying, “Warden Commander, Seneschal Varel told me to inform you that the Divine’s retinue follows the King’s.”

“Of course it does.”

Bethany couldn’t believe how unimpressed Hildur was at the news of visits from the King of Ferelden and the Divine of the Chantry, both at the same time. Mostly, she seemed annoyed at the inconvenience.

The squire and page vacated the study, only to be replaced by a tall young man clad in heavy armor of dwarven make. Unlike the meek messengers, he blew in much like Oghren had the day before, his light reddish hair sticking in different directions. “Hildur—”

The Warden Commander raised a hand to stop him. “I know. Líadan was already here. I thought you lot were keeping the Divine from disturbing the Wardens?”

The young man looked abashed. “Tried to. I can explain.” A slight blush colored his cheeks, and Bethany decided she rather liked his cheekbones. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, and she didn’t mind studying his well-composed features in order to figure it out. If more Wardens looked like this man, perhaps being a Grey Warden wouldn’t be _all_ bad.

Hildur extended her raised hand in a gesture for him to sit. “Please do.”

With a nod, he dropped into the chair next to Bethany, but didn’t seem to notice her presence, so occupied was he with the goings-on. He addressed Hildur as he launched into his explanation. “See, we were passing the split that leads from the North Road to the Vigil, and someone mentioned it. Then someone else mentioned that it was good to see the Wardens with a proper fortress again. Well, the Divine happened by—and who knew a Divine could do that?—and because she only caught the tail end of the conversation, she was all, ‘I wish to see the fortress of those who ended the Blight,’ and Alistair was all, ‘Certainly, Your Perfection,’ and Anora added, ‘Of course we can stop at Vigil’s Keep, Your Perfection.’ Meanwhile, all I wanted to do was to rustle up a tent to show her what we really had for a fortress back then. But Anora said not to, and then said the words ‘diplomatic incident.’” He huffed. “So I kept it to myself. And here they are. To visit. She’s also asking—which means demanding—we stop at the place in the Wending Wood where we found those templars. Also the town. Also every village and hamlet between Highever and Denerim, so we might get to the city by First Day. Maybe.” He frowned as he drew a hand over his face. “Maker, I hope she doesn’t consecrate the ground in the Wending Wood for a chantry, too. I can’t imagine Delilah being any happier than Fergus was about his land being usurped.”

Bethany wondered if he’d taken a breath during his story. Hildur cleared her throat and then looked pointedly at Bethany. The young man jumped in his chair, and his cheeks reddened more. “Sorry,” he said to her, giving her a warm smile that did wonders to make her completely forget any irritation she had at being ignored. “I honestly didn’t notice you. I was preoccupied.”

“You don’t say,” said Hildur.

The young man pretended not to hear the Commander and continued to speak with Bethany. “I’m Malcolm, by the way. Well met.”

“Theirin?” It was the only question Bethany could think of to ask once he’d told her his first name, and she’d finally figured out why his facial features seemed so familiar. A sense of dread began to tingle in her chest.

“Maybe.” He shifted in his chair when Hildur shot a glare at him. “Yes.”

 _Maker._ She’d been ogling a prince. Bethany had no idea what she was supposed to do. Her mother had instructed her how she was to conduct herself if she ever happened to meet royalty, and here she was, meeting a prince other than Sebastian, and—

“You can stop panicking,” said Hildur. “Among the Wardens, you treat royalty or nobility the same as you would anyone else. It’s different if we’re in public and you’re introduced or something, but in those cases, just follow everyone else’s lead.” When Bethany didn’t say anything, continuing to be shocked into silence, Hildur sighed. “You could tell him your name. Otherwise, it’ll be ‘hey you’ for the entire trip to Denerim.”

Bethany shook herself in an attempt to banish her shock. It worked enough for her to find her voice. “Bethany,” she said to Malcolm. The easy grin he gave her in return did nothing to help with the ogling, even as her brain kept shouting at her that he was a _prince_ and she was sure there was something very, very wrong with thinking such things about him.

“Mage?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“Um, the robes? Well, they’re sort of like robes. Bit flimsy to be anything else, but maybe you’re someone who really appreciates freedom of movement. Plus there’s the stave, but—”

“She’s a mage,” said Hildur, who then turned to Bethany. “He rambles when he’s flustered, and if you don’t stop him, he’ll go on forever. Considering both retinues are here instead of on their way to Denerim, _and_ he got scolded by the Queen, he’s definitely flustered.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know,” said Malcolm. “Not that you care or anything.”

Hildur smiled brightly at him. “How’s the nuglet?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Don’t _you_ start calling him that. It’s bad enough that Oghren does. Anyway, Cáel’s fine. Mostly. Doing a lot of yelling, which Nuala informs me it’s because he’s getting a tooth. Seems like an awful lot of complaining for just a tooth, but she knows more than me, which Líadan has pointed out more than once. Wynne also told me the same, both about the tooth, and that Nuala knows more about infants than I do. The good news is that once it breaks through, the yelling should be greatly reduced.”

“Hate to tell you this,” said Hildur, “but teeth usually come in pairs.”

He winced. “I don’t suppose you want to borrow a kid for a month or so? No?”

“Stop trying to give away my nephew,” came a voice from the door. “He’s not that bad with the yelling.”

Bethany turned to find herself looking at the King of Ferelden, and barely remembered Hildur’s advice in time to stop from standing. And, nephew? It seemed that Tegrin’s gossip was right on the mark, and not just half-hopeful rumors. Even if this new Theirin was technically a bastard, something in her felt happy that the Theirin line would continue for at least one more generation. She was too Fereldan to like the idea of her home country being without a King or Queen from the line of Calenhad.

“Says the man who slept on the other side of the vast camp,” said Malcolm. 

Alistair took the last remaining empty chair in the room, over in one of the corners. “I wouldn’t say last night’s camp was vast,” he said to Malcolm, and then looked at Bethany. “I’m Alistair. And you are?” He smiled at her as well, and his was even friendlier than Malcolm’s, and she dearly hoped she wasn’t blushing.

 _Maker’s breath_. What was wrong with her? The only other person she’d gotten like this around had been Brother Vael—who she also knew was royalty—at the chantry in Kirkwall. “Bethany. I’ve just been assigned here.”

“Mage,” Hildur said to Alistair. “Finally.”

Alistair smiled at Bethany again. “Thank the Maker. The Wardens really do need more—oh, speaking of!” He turned to Malcolm. “By the way, Líadan was looking for you. Something about Thierry and possibly killing. Or was it maiming? Either way, you might want to hurry before there’s bloodshed.”

Malcolm jumped out of his chair and ran out the door, with Alistair chuckling the whole time.

Oghren, who had apparently given up on Bethany catching up with him, popped through the doorway, glancing behind him where Malcolm had disappeared. “Who lit a fire under his arse?”

“Who do you think?” asked Alistair as he resumed lounging in his chair.

“Figures.” Oghren nodded at the King before turning his attention to Hildur. “Need to finish up with the new Warden, which means we need to get into the armory. Varel’s stuck hashing out dinner plans with Anora, so I’ll need you or your key or both or whatever.”

Hildur nodded and stood, taking a jangling set of keys from a desk drawer as she did. “All right. I’ll go with you. Better to continue making myself scarce rather than be stuck with the same fate as Varel. Come on.”

To Bethany’s surprise—and she was amazed at how many times she’d already been shocked and surprised during her short stay at Vigil’s Keep—Alistair followed them. Hildur shot him a questioning look, and he shrugged. “What? It isn’t like I want to get stuck chatting about protocol for dinner, either. Besides, armories tend to be filled with shiny pointy things. Way better than pretending to be interested in how not to offend the Divine.”

“I can’t exactly scold you considering I’m avoiding the same thing,” said Hildur as she started down the first flight of many flights of stairs, the trip eventually ending at what Bethany assumed was the ground floor. The Commander stopped in front of a well-reinforced door and began to look through her keys. As she searched for the right one, she asked, “Bethany, how do you feel about your stave?”

“The ladies sure like Oghren’s stave,” said Oghren.

Hildur ignored him in favor of giving Bethany a questioning look.

“Not sure I feel anything about it, other than it works,” said Bethany. “Why?”

“Weisshaupt sent a collection of weapons for us when they sent down the new issue of armor and robes and such.” Hildur put a key in the lock, turned it, and then shouldered the door open. “Thought you’d like to take a gander before you head to Denerim.”

“I’m still going to Denerim?” She’d hoped that with the visit from the King and the Divine, they’d find another place for her. Especially considering whom she’d have to travel with, and then whom she’d be living with at the Warden compound. Mostly the last bit.

“Oh, yes.” Hildur motioned around at the racks of swords, shields, staves, axes, daggers, bows, and other, less-favored weapons such as halberds and pikes.

Bethany couldn’t stop the scowl from showing on her face. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Hildur raised an eyebrow. “Why so reluctant?”

“She scares me,” Bethany said quietly.

Too quietly, apparently. “What?”

Oghren started chuckling. “The elf scares her.”

On hearing that, Alistair joined in the laughing with Oghren. It wasn’t derisive or mean-spirited laughing, but Bethany felt a little resentment, nonetheless.

“Oh?” Hildur considered Bethany for a moment, and then turned to Oghren. “To be fair, she’s only seen Líadan once, and Líadan was yelling at me at the time.”

“Elf can be intimidating to people who don’t know she’s safe as a kitten.”

Alistair frowned. “Kittens have claws. Tiny, but sharp.”

“That’s why I said kitten.” Oghren glanced over at Bethany, an oddly contemplative look furrowing his brow. “You have a crush on the blighter or something? That what scares you about the elf?”

Bethany understood each word the dwarf had used, but she still wasn’t sure about the meaning of them when strung together as they’d been. “What?”

“The blighter.” When Bethany still didn’t seem to understand, Oghren grumbled. “The sodding prince, right?” She nodded, and he continued. “Right. He and the elf are stabling the pony.”

“You mean shaping the Stone?” asked Hildur. 

A happy glint appeared in Oghren’s eyes. “More like filling the flagon.”

“Hammering on the anvil?”

“Lighting the holy brazier.”

“Mining the cave?”

“Aye! With a bit of circling the tower, too.”

Alistair outright giggled at that one, and then took pity on Bethany. “What they mean to say is that my brother and Líadan are together, as it were. And not those colorful things. Well, maybe a little.”

The sense of dread filled Bethany’s chest again. “This... is it an exclusive thing?” It was her only hope that she wasn’t going to be flayed by that frightening woman. That perhaps the goings-on were more on the level of what Isabela engaged in, and not fraught with attachment.

“Very,” said Hildur.

Bethany’s eyes went wide and breathing became difficult. “Maker’s blood.”

“Well, now you’ve gone and scared her more, Oghren,” said Alistair.

“What? I thought she knew. Only reason I could see for her to be _really_ scared of the elf. She can be territorial. Usually all she has to do is glare, but sometimes...” Oghren shuddered. “Makes me happy the elf is a friend. And that I don’t think about the blighter in that way.”

“That’s almost touching.”

“I’m going to die,” said Bethany. And once again, she was sure of it.

Alistair gave her a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but fell short. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the scary Warden.”

“Be a short fight,” said Oghren. “Elf would take you down in seconds.”

“Does she know you refer to her as ‘elf?’ I can’t imagine she’d like it.”

“Hey, don’t make this about me. This is about you and your death wish.”

Bethany sighed as she began perusing the many staves, searching for one that would pair well with her magic. From what she gathered, Oghren and Alistair could go on for hours, and she was of no mind to listen, not when they were ignoring the fact that she was the one in danger of dying a very painful death. Eventually, Alistair and Hildur excused themselves to attend to the official matters they’d been avoiding, leaving Bethany as Oghren’s charge until the evening meal. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust her, they explained, but that they didn’t want her to get lost in the Vigil, especially with so many of the Divine’s templars roaming about. Bethany did not disagree with that sentiment.

Once she found a stave she thought to her liking, she asked Oghren about going to practice with it, but he pointed out it was close to the evening meal. “Dwarves can tell time better inside and underground,” he said at her curious look. “Makes us handy. That, and stone sense. Also my ability to chop darkspawn into itty-bitty pieces. Any rate, I’m guessing some Wardens—not naming names, mind you—will have some frustration to work out of their systems after dinner. You can get some sparring in then, I’m sure. Oh! Maybe you could spar with the elf.” He stroked the braids of his beard as he mulled over an idea. “How long you think dinner will last? An hour? Two hours?” He nodded to himself. “Should be enough time to get a decent pool going for a match afterwards. It’ll do, anyhow. Been a while since we’ve had a good pool. You and the elf will be a great one.”

“I doubt it.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! It could go your way, you never know.”

Bethany remembered conversations a bit like this taking place between Varric, Isabela, and her sister. “And just what odds are you giving me?”

“Eh, eleven to one.”

“Excuse me while I revel in what amounts to zero confidence in my abilities.”

“I did say _could_.”

Were these people always like this? It made her almost miss Stroud’s staid calm. She could see Varric, along with Isabela and Marian, fitting in here, but she couldn’t see the same for herself. She nearly went dizzy when they ran into another Warden on their way to the main hall, in the form of an excited dwarven woman holding a dagger triumphantly over her head.

“Oghren! Look what I’ve got!”

Oghren accepted the proffered dagger and examined it. “Thierry’s, huh? He probably won’t like that. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but he can be a stickler for rules and propriety. Goes on and on about them. ‘Oghren, you’re only supposed to urinate in the privy.’ ‘Oghren, it’s inappropriate to leer at the Queen.’ ‘Oghren, pants are not optional.’” He scoffed and handed the dagger back to the other Warden. “Says him. I say he needs to walk around with his stones free for a while, and then he’ll think different. So, I’m sure he won’t like that you took his dagger. He’ll get all irritated.”

“Why do you think I nicked it?”

Oghren raised his bushy eyebrows. “Trying to get a rise out of him? You saucy minx.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Not that kind of rise, Oghren. Honestly.” She tucked the dagger into an empty sheath in her boot, and then waved at Bethany. “Hi! Sigrun. And you are?”

“Bethany.” Thank the Maker! It seemed she’d finally found a Warden here who appeared to be somewhat normal.

Sigrun smiled, and then began to lead her by the elbow down the hallway. “Want to escape Oghren’s clutches?”

“Don’t have any clutches,” Oghren said from behind them, and then continued grumbling under his breath. There were audible words such as ‘mother’ and ‘sodding’ and possibly ‘thunderhumper,’ but she wasn’t sure about the last one.

“Please,” said Bethany, giving Sigrun a desperate look. 

“I’ll make sure to sit on one side of you,” Sigrun said as they walked into the noisy main hall. “I think we can recruit someone else to guard your other side. Probably Líadan. She’s always happy to help protect people from Oghren’s... Oghren-ness.”

Bethany didn’t bother objecting. There wasn’t a point, not in this barely disguised chaos amongst the Wardens of Ferelden. Oghren snorted, but that was the entirety of his offered opinion on the situation. His snort was largely drowned out by the sound of well over a hundred—at least that’s how many Bethany reckoned were present—people talking at once as they all waited for the King and Queen, the Divine, and the Warden Commander to make their appearances. Only then could the rest of them eat. 

The smell of the waiting food made Bethany’s stomach growl, and not for the first time, she cursed the need for manners. Her mother would’ve been appalled; Carver would’ve been proud.

Carver the _templar_. Git.

She felt a tug on her hand as Sigrun pulled her over to a mostly empty long table. It was close to the high table, and normally where the Wardens all sat during meals. Bethany remembered that much from last evening, even if the rest was a blur of tiredness from her travels. The tiredness threatened to return again, with only one full night’s rest not nearly enough to recover from weeks in the Deep Roads before journeying across a vast forest and crossing a sea to get to Amaranthine. She sat down, happy to get off her feet. Sigrun sat next to her, and Oghren remained standing, briefly speaking to another Warden. Bethany wasn’t sure if she hoped he’d sit next to her before Líadan appeared, or if she should hope someone else, anyone else, would take the free seat before either of them did.

Her wish was granted, but not in the manner she’d wanted.

Malcolm had made his way through the crowded hall to the Wardens’ table, and frowned on seeing Bethany with Oghren milling around behind her. “Oh, we can’t make you sit next to Oghren,” he said, exchanging a look with Sigrun. “That’s just mean. There should be some sort of mandatory waiting period before new folks have to sit next to him. It’s the way he eats—you have to practice dodging the crumbs and drips.”

“Then take that free seat before Oghren does,” said Sigrun. “I was going to get Líadan to do it, but she hasn’t shown up yet.”

“She was with Nuala and Cáel, last I saw. I assume she’ll be here any time now,” Malcolm said as he sat in the suggested seat.

Bethany heard Oghren’s low chuckle from Malcolm’s other side, and realized she would rather sit next to _him_ than suffer her anxiety from sitting next to Malcolm.

Why couldn’t he be mean? Why did he have to be nice, like Sebastian? Was it some sort of prince thing? Maker’s breath, she was going to be sick.

She glanced over at him, just in time to see his face absolutely lighting up. The grin he’d given her earlier had nothing on this one. Curious about what would cause such a reaction, she followed his line of sight to find the Dalish elf she’d seen earlier striding towards the Wardens’ table. Bethany raised an eyebrow. Had she seen how Malcolm looked at Líadan before Hildur had told her about the pair, she wouldn’t have needed to be told. His expression said everything, and Líadan’s face said just the same.

Well. Far be it from her to even contemplate an attempt to come between that sort of bond. It wasn’t in her nature to disrupt such things, and she decided to content herself with admiration that she apparently couldn’t entirely stop, much like it was with Sebastian. She hadn’t missed how the last proper Vael of Starkhaven had looked at Marian when he thought she wasn’t looking. Bethany held in a sigh. _Sister, you lucky bitch_. Both her sister in Marian, and her Warden sister in Líadan.

She almost shook her head, knowing that the Fereldan nobility probably wasn’t pleased. Her mother would certainly have some things to say about it. She’d already had plenty to say about King Cailan not having left an heir, and before that, King Maric for not taking a second wife in the many years after Queen Rowan’s death. Though for Maric, the heir problem had worked itself out, even after Cailan’s death. And she’d heard enough in Kirkwall about the good things said of King Alistair—that he’d thus far proven a more intelligent and capable ruler than his brother before him. Hopes were high that if he and Anora had an heir of their own, the child would inherit the best traits from both parents. Though, she supposed, the same could be said for any child. She couldn’t imagine a parent wishing for the worst traits. For herself, if she’d ever the occasion to have a child, she didn’t want to pass along magic. It was too much of a burden, too much trouble with the world at large. All her life, she’d just wanted to be normal. While she had no hope for that herself, she could for a child.

Of course, being a Grey Warden would negate that possibility, unless she happened to find the right person within the next five years. Even then, Ingrid had explained, it was unlikely there would be children, especially if the partner was a fellow Warden.

Líadan sat in one of the last free seats available, which placed her directly across from Bethany and the others. Another man, one Bethany had seen in passing the evening before, sat beside her, earning a scowl from the elf. Instead of returning the scowl, he simply looked weary as he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry about earlier, with the nearly bowling you over thing,” said Líadan, and it took Bethany a moment to realize the other woman was speaking to her.

“Oh,” she replied, “it’s no problem.”

“I’d say I’m not normally like that, but it would be a lie. I can say that it doesn’t happen all the time, though.” Líadan put an elbow on the table and propped her chin in her hand. “I also owe Hildur an apology.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“I may have told her to do something anatomically impossible while I was in a fit of pique. It was right after that I almost ran over—” Líadan paused and addressed Bethany again. “Sorry, I never did find out your name.”

“Bethany.”

She smiled. “Nice to meet you.” Then she cast another scowl at the man next to her before returning her attention to Malcolm. “She said Thierry has to keep following me around, even though the Divine is on Grey Warden ground.”

The man sitting next to Líadan let out another small sigh. “She’s merely trying to keep the peace for the one day the Divine is here.”

“I’ll show the both of them where they can keep their peace.”

“Maybe you should wait to apologize to Hildur if you’re still wanting her to do anatomically impossible things,” said Malcolm. “Just a suggestion.”

“Why would another Warden have to follow you around?” Bethany asked, giving Thierry a curious look. He carried himself in a familiar way. There were moments when he shook of the wariness, the watchfulness, but it would return. A templar, then.

Líadan gave a small wave toward the doors. “The Divine seems to think I’m a danger to her, and that Thierry, as a former templar, can keep me from doing any harm. So he gets to be my shadow from Highever all the way to Denerim.”

“Not just a former templar,” said Malcolm, “but a former Knight-Commander.”

“Lovely,” said Bethany.

“What’s worse is that Hildur asked me to remain in Denerim even after the Divine leaves the country.” Thierry frowned. “She didn’t say why, though.”

Bethany knew why: the Denerim compound would have two mages instead of one, and it seemed even the Wardens thought they would need templar supervision. Here she’d assumed she’d escaped the arms of the Chantry, with their disdainful eyes and needless vigilance over mages. She spent the rest of the formal dinner mired in her own fit of pique, and wasn’t even able to enjoy how her anxiety over other things faded into the background. 

It wasn’t until after the meal, and after a meeting Hildur had with all the Grey Wardens, that Bethany was able to confront the Commander about the templar situation. She waited for Hildur outside the room, leaning against the stone wall, her arms crossed over her chest. Hildur was the last to exit, and so Bethany had to endure glances from the other Wardens ranging from quizzical to amused. Hildur had barely left the door when Bethany rounded on her. “You really have to take this much precaution?”

Hildur halted to turn and stare at Bethany. “What?” Then she rubbed at her forehead like she had a headache. “It’s late, you know, and you’re leaving in the morning. Now is not the best time for whatever confrontation you have in mind.”

Bethany didn’t much care how inconvenienced Hildur felt. _She_ was the one who’d spent the past year in Kirkwall, most of the time either hiding or running from the fanatical templars under Knight-Commander Meredith’s command. Being tainted in the Deep Roads and being made a Grey Warden, both of those had just one upside: escape from Chantry oversight. Hildur had taken away that one good thing. Being forced to remain under the watchful eye for a former Knight-Commander would blot out what little light she had left. She might as well have turned herself over to the Circle. Less darkspawn. While she usually kept her opinions to herself, mostly because Carver and Marian had done enough of the yelling already, she wouldn’t remain silent about this. She wouldn’t let the last bit of good go without a fight. “It’s the only time. Is it really necessary to send a former Knight-Commander to Denerim with us?”

“That? No.” Instead of looking outraged, the tiredness around Hildur’s eyes became stark. “You aren’t that special. Thierry’s going to Denerim because Alistair has to convince him he can still use his templar abilities without lyrium.”

“Oh.” _Not that special_. Well, she had always wanted to be normal, treated like everyone else instead of a mage.

“Besides, it was have you hang out with one templar or a dozen. Most mages I’ve known would’ve preferred the one. But if you want to stay at the Vigil, feel free.”

“I think... I think I’ll be fine in Denerim.”

Hildur gave her a nod. “Thought so.”

Bethany opened her mouth, thought better of it, and asked instead, “Templars can use their abilities without taking lyrium?”

“The ones outside the Chantry can. Namely, Grey Wardens.”

It didn’t make sense, even if Hildur acted like it did. Lyrium was addictive. If taken for a long enough time, or take in a large enough dose, it killed. Why hamper their own soldiers? “If templars don’t require lyrium, why would the Chantry risk the health of their own warriors?

Hildur gave a short laugh. “You should ask Alistair that question. Be ready for a righteous rant when you do, though. Gets him all worked up.”

Imagining the King all worked up made Bethany begin to get worked up herself. “Oh?”

“I’m told it’s quite a sight.” Hildur shot her a knowing grin, and then said good night before strolling down the hall, leaving Bethany to stare after her.

She seemed to be doing that a lot.

They were impossible, these Fereldan Wardens. All of them.


	31. Chapter 31

“Whether Calenhad ever found Aldenon, what they said, and whether they made amends—only the Maker knows. But that’s the last time anyone ever saw our king.” ****

— _from the Recollections of Ser Devith, banner knight of King Calenhad_

**Malcolm**

****It was still night outside. At least, that’s what it looked like to Malcolm with the sky as dark as it was, only a pinkish hint of sunrise on the horizon when he peeked out a window.

He scowled at the dwarf in front of him, the one who’d insisted he get up early. “Why are we up when the stars are still out? The Vigil has its own order of guards to keep watch. That’s what the Silver Order is for: to keep watch and let the Wardens sleep in.” He frowned and relented in his opinion. “Okay, also to guard us against attack. But my concern here is the denial of sleep.”

“You’ll live,” said Hildur.

Malcolm grumbled. “Unhappily.”

“I rise this early every day,” said Thierry. “The Chantry required it, and it has become habit.”

“Yeah, well, bully for you.” Malcolm recalled Alistair had been the same way, and _he_ hadn’t lorded it over him. Much. Stupid Chantry.

Líadan snorted in laughter, even with the lately ever-present former templar trailing behind them.

“Cheer up,” said Hildur. “Weisshaupt sent something for you. Georg’s idea.”

Even the prospect of a gift held little sway at this time of night—he refused to call it day. The sconces in the hallways all still held lit torches or candles or glowstones enchanted with runes. Then again, the Vigil was enough of a dark warren that many of them remained lit through the day. Part of him wondered how much of the darkness had shaped Rendon Howe, and then he decided he’d rather not think about that man. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said to Hildur. The Wardens never gave good presents. Their gifts involved things like darkspawn and blood, taint and early deaths. None of those things were good. Even the increased appetite was more an annoyance than blessing, and the supposed infertility could inconveniently not take effect quickly enough.

“Calm down. It’s armor.”

He frowned as he glanced down at the more-than-serviceable armor he wore. “What’s wrong with what I have?”

She shrugged, removing the armory key from her belt as they approached the heavy door that had Sigrun waiting outside. “Nothing, really. It’s decent. But Weisshaupt’s had smiths and enchanters, both mage and dwarven, working on improved versions of Grey Warden issued armor. Better design, better materials, better fit, better everything. The new armor offers more flexibility and is lighter, but protects just as much. It also tells everyone you’re a Grey Warden. Helps ward off the Chantry, sometimes bandits, and occasionally Antivan Crows.”

His frown became skeptical instead of offended. “That sounds magical.”

“I did say magic was involved.”

“Right. I knew that.” He followed Hildur into the vast room holding racks upon racks of armor and weapons. “They sent a lot. Are they overly optimistic about your recruiting efforts?”

“Hope springs eternal, as you humans say.” She turned to Líadan, Thierry, and Sigrun, and then motioned toward the racks. “There’s appropriate armor for all of you. Even though Thierry’s isn’t old at all, this stuff is still better. I’m going to be getting a set myself before I head to Kinloch Hold. It’s that nice.”

“What? I can’t pick out my own?” Malcolm asked as the other Wardens began to look over the offerings. “I mean, it can’t hurt to try new armor, especially if it’s lighter. But if King Bhelen gets all sad that I’m not wearing the armor he gave me, you can take it up with him.”

“You aren’t quite that special,” said Hildur as she moved to an opened crate that’d been set aside. “I meant it when I said all the Grey Wardens are being issued the same. Every country’s Wardens, not just Ferelden.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, uniforms, is it?”

“Weisshaupt thought it best, especially where the mages are concerned. They’ve been getting touchier lately about mages in general. There’ve been a couple reports of templars trying to take custody of Warden mages. It didn’t go over well, but they still attempted. And before you ask, no, they didn’t have any overt Warden insignia on their robes.”

“Oh, even the arming jackets are enchanted,” Líadan said from behind a row of armor stands. “Along with the gloves and gauntlets and boots and... everything. Much better than what I have.”

“I think they’re pretty.” Sigrun held up one of the blue and silver brigandines toward Thierry. “Right?”

Thierry contemplated the brigandine for a moment. “More handsome than pretty, I’d say.”

Hildur shoved crate toward Malcolm. “Here’s yours.”

He shot the Warden Commander a skeptical look before digging into the crate. The armor inside looked much the same—exactly the same—as the heavy armor on the stands. “I don’t get it,” he said to Hildur. “What’s the difference?”

“Enchanted against fire.”

Líadan and Sigrun started giggling.

Malcolm sighed. “It’s not that funny.” It was a brilliant idea, though. But he wouldn’t be admitting that part out loud.

“Only thing that’d make it funnier would be if it were enchanted against spiders,” said Líadan. 

“Do they make that enchantment?” asked Sigrun.

Thierry shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. However, I’m sure the Formari could be convinced to create one should they be informed of the need. More than one of the Formari has mentioned to me they can objectively appreciate the challenge of creating new enchantments.”

“Dwarves who do runic enchanting are like that, too,” said Sigrun. “I bet they’d like an enchantment that keeps away spiders. The thaig crawlers are annoying to the Legion of the Dead. Not hard to kill, but there’s just so many. And they’re so rude, too! They interrupt conversations all the time.”

“Because that’s what makes spiders horrible things,” said Malcolm. “Their lack of manners.”

Líadan draped a gambeson over her forearm before raising an eyebrow at him. “Like you’d turn down that kind of enchantment.”

“Never said I would.” He turned back to the armor, which he really did like, especially if it were as light and flexible as Hildur promised. 

When he went to heft the crate, Hildur stopped him. “Wait, wait.” She rummaged through another crate, moved aside cloth that was in it, and then presented him with another item. “Here’s the last bit.”

He took it, even as his expression became more skeptical. “A helm?”

“To protect your head,” she said slowly. “Not sure if you’re aware, but most fighters wear them. Good for keeping the skull without dents and cracks.”

He rolled his eyes. “I know that. But what about peripheral vision?”

She sighed. “It’s enchanted against fire, like the rest of your armor. Georg thought it for the best when it comes to you.”

Malcolm dropped the helm into the crate with the rest of the armor. “Sold.”

“Hey,” said Sigrun, holding up another dark grey helm, complete with a griffon wing extending from each side, “it could’ve been this one.”

“People wear that?” he asked Hildur.

Thierry snatched the helm from Sigrun’s hand. “I’ll take it. I always wanted a little oomph to my templar bucket. This is even better. Not only is it not a templar helm, but it’s got wings. The Divine will hate it.”

“You’re not serious,” said Líadan, eyeing the helm as if it would fly over and bite her.

Thierry secured the helm on his head instead of answering. “How’s it look? Dashing?”

Líadan gave Thierry a flat look. “There’s something wrong with you. Other than being a templar.”

“Orlesian,” said Malcolm.

Thierry chuckled, almost placed the helm back in a crate, and then tucked it under his arm instead. At the questioning looks from the others in the room, he said, “It really will aggravate the Divine. Considering the trouble she’s put us through, I’m willing to suffer the indignity of a winged helm for the sake of annoying Her Perfection.”

“If she were really perfect,” said Sigrun, “you’d think she wouldn’t be able to be annoyed. Ever. I’d actually be impressed if that were true.”

“I’d rather not test that.” Malcolm hefted the crate in his arms. “Could stand to test out this armor, though.”

“Feel free to take a jaunt in the Deep Roads if you really want to test it,” Hildur said with a deceptive mildness.

Malcolm took a step back. “No! No, not against darkspawn. I meant sparring.” He frowned. “If we have time. I recall Alistair saying he wanted to leave as early as possible. Wait, no, that was Thierry. Wanting to avoid death by angry Dalish elf, and all.”

Sigrun dropped the crate she’d hefted, which landed on the stone floor with a heavy smack. “Velanna’s back from the dead? Ancestors help us!”

“Now I remember why you’re my friend,” Líadan said to Sigrun.

Before the bickering could gain momentum, Hildur called in a couple footmen to help bring the crates of selected armor down to the room used to dress before training. Then she indicated for the others to follow her out of the armory. Once the Wardens had been successfully redirected, she said to Malcolm, “Anders is in Kirkwall. The new Warden told me.”

Malcolm lifted an eyebrow. “Is he? That’s interesting.” From what he remembered, Anders had been very vehement about them _not_ going into Kirkwall when they’d all been traveling together. For him to disappear, and then go to the very place he’d told them not to, seemed very strange. Then again, Anders himself had seemed... off... in those last few weeks before he’d left their company. Most of the time, he did seem himself, yet other times... something just hadn’t felt right. What drove him to Kirkwall? What had driven him to leave in the first place? Disappointment trickled through him again at the realization that his friend had never even bothered to say goodbye before disappearing. 

“You don’t want to go get him?” asked Hildur. 

He shrugged. “And do what, exactly? Drag him back, kicking and screaming? Throw him down with the darkspawn for desertion? It isn’t like he could escape the taint. It stays with you forever. Besides, he’d just as soon leave again. Even if we kept him under lock and key, he’d escape. He made a game out of escaping from Kinloch Hold, for Maker’s sake. If he’s going to come back, he will, of his own accord.”

“We do have templars here, you realize.” Hildur illustrated her statement with a jerk of her head towards Thierry.

“Leave me out of this,” said Thierry. “We still haven’t established if I can use my templar abilities or not with my diminished intake of lyrium.”

“Better not let the Divine hear you say that,” said Malcolm, who then looked over his shoulder at the former templar. “And you can use your abilities. I can do most of the stuff you can, and I’ve never had to take lyrium. Alistair, too. He can do more than I can, for that matter.”

“Which is why you’re going to Denerim with the rest of the group, so Alistair can teach you,” said Hildur. “I certainly can’t.” Then she turned to Malcolm, even as Thierry shook his head in disbelief behind her. “And I agree with you about Anders. I just wanted to make sure we had the same thoughts.”

Malcolm scowled. “This isn’t Orzammar. You could’ve just asked.”

“If this were Orzammar, I’d have had a group of thugs beat you senseless, force you to fight in the Proving, and then had an incriminating letter sent to your family, leaving them no choice but to throw you in the Deep Roads.”

“You know, I’m really beginning to see why you left.”

“I love my family a lot more when I’m really, really far away from them.”

He chuckled under his breath as they rounded the corner, where Fergus stormed out of one of a pair of doors that led to the library. Manners ingrained in him since he was a young boy, the teyrn managed to wave a jerky, almost violent hello before heading in the direction of the training yard. 

Líadan stared after him, disturbed by Fergus’ uncharacteristic behavior. “I thought he was the calm one.”

“He _is_ ,” said Malcolm, staring just as much as Líadan and the rest of the Wardens with them. Then Alistair came out of the library, followed by Anora and Cauthrien. “What’s with Fergus?” Malcolm asked his brother.

“Oh, him?” Alistair’s features had composed themselves into a picture of being nonchalant, but the slight tension in his movements betrayed otherwise. “He asked the Knight-Vigilant to have the Divine grant him a favor.”

“What favor?” A spike of fear drove through Malcolm’s chest, fear that Fergus had overstepped his bounds and asked for the dispensation. Not only asked for it so soon, but also asked for it in front of Alistair, which meant Alistair would probably start to put things together. While not as observant as Fergus, he did pick up far more than he let on. With only a few hints, it wouldn’t take him long to figure it out. He traded a look with Líadan, and saw the same fear had taken residence within her, as well.

Alistair didn’t seem to notice the exchange, his brow furrowed in thought. “Ser Renaud explained to us that Her Perfection isn’t entirely... with it, as it were. Her mind’s begun to wander off. The consecration of the battlefield was a symptom. On hearing that, Fergus had busted out with, ‘Then tell Her Perfection to take it _back_!’” He shrugged and held up his hands. “Now, I didn’t think ordering the Knight-Vigilant to do anything would be productive, but it isn’t my land that got taken, so what do I know?”

“Can a consecration even be undone? You’d think it would defeat the purpose.” Though Malcolm really did feel sympathy for Fergus and his rightful anger, he couldn’t help the relief that replaced his budding fear. So the secret wasn’t out too soon, after all. They were safe. 

“No, Ser Renaud seemed to think not. And then Cauthrien mentioned that consecrating Fereldan land to become Chantry land without securing permission from the landholder could be seen as a way for Orlais to gain a foothold for another invasion.”

“Bet that went over well,” said Hildur, and then glanced at Cauthrien.

The teyrna scowled, her hands working at tugging on leather gloves that matched the leathers she had on. Cauthrien had yet to appear before the Divine or any of her staff sans armor. Not one person on the Fereldan side had blamed her for it. “I find myself with the need to hit something.” That said, she surveyed the others in the corridor, as if asking for volunteers.

Beside Alistair, Anora’s eyes clouded with sadness and a hint of resentment. “Orlesians brought out the same reaction in my father,” she said after Alistair gave her a questioning look. She shook herself, and the sadness disappeared, along with the resentment. Then she indicated to Cauthrien the other warriors with them. “I’m sure these ladies and gentlemen would be happy to oblige.”

Eyes widening, Malcolm searched around for an excuse or escape or anything to get out of fighting Cauthrien. Her skill, as far as he’d witnessed, went unmatched by any of them, and he really had no urge to take a beating. He’d wanted to test his new armor, not break it and himself. But no excuse manifested for him. For others, however, there were excuses aplenty. 

“Wynne asked to see me,” said Líadan. “Mage stuff, you know.” With that, she waved and scurried away before she could be questioned further.

Malcolm glared after her, even as Thierry rolled his eyes and followed. They both knew full well that Líadan didn’t really voluntarily do mage anything.

“Stuff to pack.” And Sigrun bolted after Líadan.

The teyrn of Highever, who’d reappeared at the other end of the corridor, looking no less perturbed, called over to them, “Are you lot coming or not?”

Maker’s breath, he wasn’t going to get out of this. He’d have bruises for weeks afterward, he knew it.

“I need to go finish preparations for my trip to Kinloch Hold,” said Hildur. “But I know Malcolm wanted to test his new armor.”

Alistair cleared his throat and looked at Malcolm. “Well, have fun with that.”

Anora placed a hand on his arm. “And you as well, I think. Perhaps the three of you may yet provide Cauthrien with a challenge.”

Fergus snorted. “Only in that it’ll take longer for her to kick our asses, but I’m game.”

In the sparring ring, the prediction turned out entirely true, in more painful ways than Malcolm had thought. Boasting—not him, that was Alistair—turned quickly into the King of Ferelden able to concentrate on only breathing in great, heaving gasps at the effort it took to evade Cauthrien’s blade. Fergus, having regained some stamina after his last exchange of blows with Cauthrien, attempted to take advantage of her deep recovery after a lunge at a practically running away at a retreat Alistair. Cauthrien caught Fergus’ movement in time, kept low, shifted and spun, clipping him at the back of the knee with the flat of her blade. Fergus’ knee buckled under him, and he was sent toppling over onto his rear when Cauthrien reversed direction and clipped his ankle. Malcolm had the gall to chuckle at Fergus as the teyrn landed on his backside, allowing Cauthrien to slip into his blind spot. He barely caught her movement before she disappeared from view, and he spun around to find her. At the same time, she’d started her swing. His helm and her sword collided with a great crash that sent Malcolm reeling into the dirt to the sound of Chantry bells. 

His shoulder crunched in an alarming way when he landed on it, and coupled with his protesting skull, he decided in was in his best interest to remain on the ground. Fergus chose to do the same.

“It’s just you and me, Your Majesty,” Cauthrien said to Alistair. “Have you any last requests?”

“So you _can_ joke!” said Alistair. His eyes were alight with the want to say more, but getting enough air to carry on took precedence.

Cauthrien had no such problems with her breathing. A ghost of a grin plucked briefly at the corners of her mouth before she said to the King, “Surrender, and I may show mercy.” 

Alistair raised his sword and shield once more. “Death first!” Then he charged straight at Cauthrien, shield angled for smashing instead of deflecting.

Even in Malcolm’s compromised state, he recognized it wouldn’t end well for Alistair.

It didn’t. Cauthrien dodged the straight attack, practically rolling to the side with her two-hander moving in a blur. Apparently still not having expected Cauthrien to move with such quick grace, Alistair lost track of her long enough for her to be able to bind his blade with hers, and then kick him to the ground. Her foot rested atop Alistair’s chest, and her sword tip found his throat as she gave him an expectant look.

“Mercy?” asked Alistair.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our King,” said Fergus. “Maker help us all.”

Cauthrien smiled and sheathed her sword before offering Alistair a hand up. “Not bad, Your Majesty. We should this more often—maybe one day, you’ll earn fewer bruises.” She clapped him warmly on the shoulder. When it became obvious that her three sparring partners were completely done for the morning, she trotted off to work on forms in the grassy area just beyond the fenced sparring ring.

Thoroughly trounced by Cauthrien and her ability with a two-handed sword, the three men left behind collapsed heavily on the bench outside the training area. Alistair dropped his head into his hands and simply moaned in pain. Fergus slumped against the stone wall behind the bench they sat on, his right leg stretched out as he tested the soundness of his knee and ankle. Malcolm sat up straight, but only because he was rolling his shoulder,  which happened to be the same one he’d injured last winter while sparring with Alistair. He’d yet to accept that Alistair was better than him more often than not, but he had no qualms accepting that fact about Cauthrien.

“Ankle’s fine,” said Fergus, “but the knee is suspect. I’ll have to wrap it. Either that or convince one of the healers around here to tend to it.”

“Wynne can be swayed by really good ale,” said Alistair. “That was the only way Oghren ever got her to agree to help with any of his non life-threatening injuries. He’d be a heap of scars, otherwise. Meanwhile, I’m a heap of bruises. I’m afraid to take off my armor. My skin will just be a mass of black and blue. Maybe some red. We should’ve just sent Cauthrien out to kill the Archdemon. Fight would’ve been a lot shorter. Maker, she could take on the entire horde, given the proper motivation.”

Fergus chuckled. “Perhaps if they’d been Orlesian darkspawn.” Then his eyes became contemplative, and he took a more serious tone. “I wonder what would’ve happened at Ostagar if she had disobeyed Loghain and made the charge with their troops.”

“My father would have had her arrested, at best,” Anora said quietly as she walked into the training yard, accompanied by Wynne, Líadan, and the new Warden, whose name Malcolm couldn’t remember. Behind them trailed Thierry, who looked mostly bored and that he wished to be anywhere else other than following Líadan. 

Anora continued speaking, her eyes growing distant as her thoughts turned to memories of her late father. “At worst, and probably more likely, he would have killed her for disobeying a direct order in a time of war. He didn’t suffer soldiers who did not follow orders. Cauthrien would have been no exception, much as... much as I know it would have pained him to do so.”

“I thought he had a plan,” Cauthrien said, just as quietly.

At some point, as they’d wallowed in their pain, Cauthrien had wandered back over from the training ring. She’d put away the blunted practice sword, and now carried the sword Loghain had given her, one that he’d won from the unfortunate, dead Chevalier who’d first carried it. Cauthrien’s expression was as drawn as Anora’s, making Malcolm wonder yet again just what relationship Cauthrien had to Loghain. Either one could cause the resentment from Anora, though the queen did hide it well. Malcolm supposed the fact that Cauthrien was younger than Anora, and probably had been born after Anora’s mother had died was a small comfort, if the illegitimate daughter rumor was true. If not, and the _other_ rumor was true, that just had to be incredibly awkward, and probably for the best if no one thought about it.

“And, yes, he would have killed me, right then and there, had I disobeyed,” the teyrna continued to say, nodding in agreement at Anora. “But maybe I would have done so, if I’d... no. Maybe not. The horde hadn’t stopped coming. It was just wave after wave, no end in sight. The hammer that Loghain’s troops were supposed to be would have been overrun just like the rest of the army. Whatever else Loghain did wrong after the battle, he was right to deny the charge. Ferelden would’ve been left without an army, at least from what information we had available at the time.” She looked over at Alistair and Malcolm. “And it had nothing to do with the timing of the signal, either. It was too soon. We weren’t supposed to charge until the entire darkspawn army we faced had fully engaged with the King’s troops. That never happened.” She gritted her teeth. “They just never stopped.”

“And afterward?” Alistair asked without rancor.

“Folly. I see that now. He didn’t view the darkspawn as a greater threat than Orlais until it was too late. By that time, his course had already been set, and he dared not veer from it.” Blinking rapidly, she broke eye contact. “Excuse me.” Then she walked away, in the direction opposite from the entrance to the castle. Anora watched in the direction she’d gone, and then without a word to the rest of them, followed.

“Did that feel strange to anyone else?” asked Alistair. “I wonder what that was about.”

Malcolm rolled his shoulder again as he followed Alistair’s gaze. “I still can’t figure out which rumor is true. And I can’t just ask. She’d punch me in the face. Either one of them.”

“You’d deserve it, putting stock in rumors like that.” Wynne crossed her arms and surveyed the three men who’d yet to stop making their pain obvious. “And what happened to you three?”

“Cauthrien,” said Malcolm. “Maker, she packs a wallop. The Archdemon hit softer than she does. Can you imagine if we’d had to fight her during the Blight?”

Fergus stood, gingerly putting weight on the leg with the banged-up knee. “You’d be dead. Not really a mystery about that.” He bestowed a smile on Wynne. “How about this rumor I heard about you being plied with good ale for healing wounds that result from stupidity?”

“It isn’t like you can travel as you are, any of you.” Wynne made a noise of disapproval. “You should have known better than to spar with your tempers high from your interactions with the Divine.”

“Arguments,” said Alistair. “You can say it, Wynne. Arguments. Or squabbles, if you’d rather. If you want to get Orlesian about it, contretemps, if you will.”

Wynne sniffed at him. “Find yourself another healer, Your Majesty. I’ll be tending to His Grace.”

Fergus shot the King a triumphant grin, while Alistair sighed. Then he fixed the new Warden with a plaintive look. “You wouldn’t happen to be a healer, would you? I’d ask Líadan, but she’s more likely to make it worse.” Líadan frowned at him, and he rolled his eyes in answer. “Don’t give me that look, you’ve said it yourself how bad you are. In those terms, even. You getting all mad about that is like when Wynne complains if we call her old. You just can’t win, it seems.”

“Now you’re catching on,” said Fergus.

The new Warden—Malcolm really wished he could recall her name, because asking right now would be quite embarrassing—glanced at Wynne, as if asking for permission. Wynne seemed a little puzzled at first before giving the younger woman a slight nod. Then, with the glow of healing magic forming around her hands, the new Warden set to checking on Alistair. Malcolm sat back and studied the helm in his hands, trying to see if Cauthrien had made a dent when she’d caught him on the side of the head. No dent, but his head had started to ache something fierce. He supposed something had to be said for helms, however. Were it not for the one Georg had sent, he’d probably have a skull fracture, and be enduring a lot of scolding from both healers present. Maybe the new Warden wasn’t one to scold, but he’d yet to meet a healer who didn’t take to scolding when it came to healing injuries caused by being stupid. Even Anders had gotten in on that particular game.

“You scratched your nice new helm,” Líadan said as she took it from his hands.

He looked up, feeling himself smile at seeing her face. “Hm? What? Oh, yeah. Good thing I had it on. She hits _hard_. Then she tells us she wasn’t even going at full strength!”

“He had his bell rung pretty good by Cauthrien,” said Fergus. 

Líadan placed a hand on either side of his head as she crouched down to take a closer look at him. The corners of her mouth had taken the first downward turn into a frown. “You really didn’t need to test out the helm.”

“It isn’t like I purposefully ran into her sword.” Malcolm only halfheartedly tried to wrestle his indignance into submission, and failed. “One second I was standing and swinging, then I caught a glimpse of a two-handed blade coming at me way faster than any two-handed sword has a right to be, and then the next second, I’m on the ground, seeing stars. Fergus is right. I even heard ringing. More annoying than pretty, though, unlike normal bells.” Come to think of it, he realized, it hadn’t really entirely gone away. Sort of like those times during the Blight. “You know,” he said slowly, as if words had become difficult things to manage, “I believe I might have a concussion.”

“You don’t say,” said Líadan. “I think someone might need to forbid you from sparring with Cauthrien, and leave the practice with her to people who can keep up with her. Or at the very least, keep from getting head injuries.”

Alistair had stood up as Líadan examined Malcolm, his gaze switching between where Anora and Cauthrien had walked off, and back to the others. “I’m just bruises. I’m good for it. And I think Oghren actually spars with her every day if they’re in the same garrison. Sten, too. So I get to hang out with them, while you two louts can take the remedial swordsmanship class with some of the recruits.”

“I’m not going to bother thinking up a witty retort until I’ve at least had breakfast,” said Fergus. He was walking to test out the knee Wynne had healed. “Which should be very soon. Considering the group we’ve got here, I suspect the seneschal will be sending a page to remind us.”

Malcolm went to reply, but Wynne taking Líadan’s place in front of him shut him right up. Of all the healers he’d known, Wynne was the absolute best at scolding. He had no wish to get on her bad side, not when his head hurt this much. “In the future,” Wynne said as her magic pulsed through him, chasing out the hurt and fixing whatever had gotten knocked around, “you should seek to avoid blades hitting you in the head.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, not even considering a sarcastic answer. She smiled at him in return, and for one mortifying moment, he thought she was going to ruffle his hair. He barely held in a sigh of relief when she didn’t.

With the last of them healed up, they began a slow, reluctant walk to the main hall. While Malcolm was hungry, and knew the other Wardens were as well, none of them were eager to interact with the Divine again, much less this early in the day. However, they had no real choice, because they were traveling with her, and they couldn’t avoid her for the entire trip to Denerim. Ot at all, really. 

And he wasn’t sure if it was the remnants of the concussion, or a sudden inability to read people, but the new Warden occasionally looked at him kind of strangely. Almost like she possibly had a—no. There was more giggling with that kind of thing. He made a note to ask Líadan or Nuala about it next time he got a chance, but he wasn’t presented with the opportunity until late afternoon, as they continued the ride to Denerim. 

As Malcolm surveyed the entire retinue before him from his vantage point at the top of the hill and the retinues ahead of him, it struck him how colorful it was. They were almost a host, with all the retinues combined, and the mass of colors stood out along the brown of the dirt road and the tired greens of the late summer trees that lined it. For Ferelden, there were the red and gold livery of the Royal Guard, the green and black of Cauthrien’s Gwaren knights, the blue and white of Highever’s knights, and the silver and blue of the Grey Wardens. The Divine’s contingent was a riot of color all its own. Though he’d traveled with a host far larger than this at the end of the Blight on their march to Denerim, it had seemed dimmer then. Muted, dusty, barren, dark like the Blight clouds that had menaced on the horizon. It was nice to see the difference, even if it meant time spent with the Divine and other Orlesians.

They’d at least made it as far as the Wending Wood, but were skirting it to rest the night in—and near, considering the sheer number of people—the village of Navan, where those three templars had last been seen. The Divine wanted to thank the villagers who’d interacted with them and supported them, or something like that. And _then_ she wanted to see where they’d been sent to the Maker.

He didn’t look forward much to that part. It meant telling the Divine the whole story, and he was fairly certain she wouldn’t like how it ended. But he couldn’t lie to the Divine, could he? He was pretty sure it’d mean a trip straight to the Void. Yet he couldn’t imagine a story ending in, “And then we killed the last templar we came across when we found her in the Deep Roads,” going over well with the Chantry crowd. Probably, he should start with the ghoul bit. Or maybe the heroism first, followed by the ghoul bit. Or none of them. He sighed.

“What?” Líadan asked from where she rode beside him.

Not wanting to really talk about the Divine with her, pretty much ever because it never failed to set her off, he opted for the other uncomfortable subject. “Not sure if I like the new Warden. Bellamy? Be—”

“Bethany. And why not? She’s very nice. Really good at hiding how bitter she is, unless you get her talking about her sister.”

“She looks at me funny. Kind of like some of the servant girls do, only with less of the poorly hidden giggling. Grown women don’t get crushes, do they? Because it’ll be really awkward if she’s got one.”

Líadan’s expression darkened, and her fingers tightened slightly on the reins. “I’ll show her awkward.”

“What? No! No, not needed!” His panic caused him to sit up uncomfortably straight in his saddle. Maker’s breath, didn’t she know that if Morrigan wasn’t a threat to their bond, no one could be? 

She flashed him a grin, the anger gone in an instant.

He narrowed his eyes at her. She’d been having him on. In his defense, her emotions had been more than a tad mercurial lately, and it’d gotten harder to tell when she was joking. Even now, he wasn’t entirely certain.

“I was kidding,” Líadan said. “I like her. She’s got a good heart, and she’s a good mage, to boot.”

He scratched at his chin. “Even if she keeps looking at me like she does occasionally?”

She shrugged. “Nothing wrong with looking.”

“What? Why? Who’ve you been looking at?”

Líadan gave him a sly grin before urging her horse forward to ride with the next group of Wardens. Before he could catch up with her, Wynne pulled alongside him to inquire about his head. Without thinking, he answered, “Spinning,” which earned him a frown and a quick examination, because she took him at his word and refused to believe his protests that something else had caused the spinning, and anyway, said spinning was metaphorical.

“Nonsense,” said Wynne.

He sighed again. “Sometimes, I think it is.” Wanting to definitely not talk to Wynne about what Líadan had said, he asked her what she thought he should say to the Divine about Ser Ava and the other templars and what order he should say it in. Turned out, she didn’t have any good advice, either, and Wynne always knew the answers—even if they were wrong, though she’d never admit it. He’d have to find a way to make Alistair tell the story. Except that Alistair was horrible at lying, even lies of omission, and they really didn’t want to remind the Divine about Velanna. Despair settled over him. Times like this, he preferred the relative simplicity of the Blight.

In the end, they got Anora to tell the Divine the story, backed up by the two teyrns Ferelden had. The Queen had agreed that neither Theirin could pull off even a convincing mostly-truth, so she volunteered herself for the task. When asked about the lying bit, she gave some sort of rationalization about the Grey Wardens needing to keep a decent relationship with the Chantry, and all that’d happened was over and done with, wasn’t it? 

Neither Alistair nor Malcolm had much of a counter, aside from “it could still count as a lie,” but Anora had been assured the Maker would be fine with it.

Malcolm puzzled over how she could know the Maker’s mind so well, but didn’t question it out loud. Safer that way. He did wonder at whether or not Anora would’ve gotten along with Leliana, what with both of them thinking they knew the Maker’s will.

As he waited nearby with Alistair for Anora’s meeting with the Divine to be over, he posed the question to his brother. “You think Anora would’ve liked Leliana? Well, except for the whole you being in love with her thing.” He made a face. “You know what I mean.”

Alistair seemed to consider it for a moment. Then he said, “Eh, probably not. Orlesian.”

“Right.” Malcolm played with the edges of his brigandine, which had yet to form any frayed threads, and fought his impatience more than usual. If this meeting didn’t let out soon, Cáel would be asleep for the night. The teething thing had passed for the time being—without any actual teeth showing up, so he wasn’t convinced it’d really been teething—and the boy was once again more fun to be around. Plus, Malcolm kind of wanted to spend some time with his wife.

He smiled at that. Bondmate, wife, however they referred to it, still awesome.

“What are you grinning at?”

Malcolm just barely managed not to jump. “Just... just thinking about Cáel.” Mostly true. Hopefully truth enough that Alistair wouldn’t catch on, especially since they were both gazing out at the vast camp and therefore not making eye contact that he’d have to break. 

If Alistair noticed, he didn’t mention it. “Yeah, he is pretty cute. Even Sten likes him.”

“Sten has a weakness for babies of any species. Kittens, puppies, colts, humans... total sucker for them. You should keep that in mind in case he’s ever mad at you.”

“Or I could just endeavor to not piss off the giant who could squish me like a gnat.”

“True.”

Alistair waved his hand at Malcolm’s helm and presumably the rest of the armor he was still dressed in. “Nice armor, by the way. I’m very jealous. Never had anything like that when I was a Warden.”

“You still are a Warden.”

“Ha!” Alistair crossed his arms as he gave a rueful smile. “You should see how Anora reacts if I so much as mention killing darkspawn. On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t.”

Still fidgety, Malcolm tried to occupy himself by examining the helm in his hands. “She ever mention anything to you about what happened with Cauthrien?”

Alistair sighed. “No.”

“Damn.” He tapped the helm against his leg before shooting his brother an accusatory look. “Did you even ask?”

“Of course not. If she wants me to know, she’ll mention it. If not, well, I probably don’t need to know.”

“You’re the King. You should know these things. Whatever the things are. Especially if your wife has—”

Alistair snatched the helm from Malcolm’s hands, making him stop speaking. “Yup, good time to shut up. Not very kingly of me to say, but there you go. Shut it. If she overhears, she’ll kill you, and then me, and it would be very sad. Tragic, our lives coming to such a short end.”

Malcolm grabbed his helm back and resumed his fidgeting. After an interminable amount of time, the teyrns and the Queen emerged, informing them that all had gone well. However, the Divine still wanted to make the stop in the Wending Wood, and had dropped hints about consecrating the place of their deaths.

“Wonderful,” said Alistair.


	32. Chapter 32

  
“The first Blight devastated the Tevinter Imperium. Not only had the darkspawn ravaged the countryside, but Tevinter citizens had to face the fact that their own gods had turned against them. Dumat, the Old God once known as the Dragon of Silence, had risen to silence the world, and despite the frenzied pleas for help, the other Old Gods did nothing. The people of the Imperium began to question their faith, murdering priests and burning temples to punish their gods for not returning to help.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

****“The Divine wants to meet him,” said Alistair.

“Him, who?” Malcolm asked, sitting up from his slouch at hearing the deadly serious tone in his brother’s voice. They had finally reached Denerim, and Malcolm had not so much as bathed and attempted to settle into the compound before he’d been summoned to the palace. Once he’d gotten there, he’d been made to wait, though was repeatedly assured the waiting was due to the King being stuck in conference with the Divine, and not for any other reasons. Malcolm had almost fallen asleep as he waited, his restless energy having disappeared after a long time on the road.

“Cáel.” Alistair started to pace, his own energy not having diminished in the least. “She wants to meet him before agreeing to approve the legitimacy the Landsmeet might grant him.”

While Malcolm thought both Alistair and the Divine were getting a little ahead of themselves, as if they both assumed the Landsmeet would automatically grant Cáel legitimacy, he also couldn’t figure out why Alistair was so bothered by the Divine’s request. Sure, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the head of the Chantry meeting his son by the woman the Chantry had chased for months, but other than trying to smite a non-mage infant, he couldn’t see much harm it could do.  Or, in turn, anything Cáel could do to ruin his chances of the Divine’s approval. “He’s a Theirin,” Malcolm said as he attempted to relax once more. “And a baby. He should be able to charm the pants off her.”

Alistair’s pacing stopped cold. “There are _so_ many things wrong with what you just said.”

“It was metaphorical!” Maker, Oghren should’ve been the only person to have his thoughts go in that direction. 

“Wrong metaphor to choose.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes and flopped back into the chair. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t even wear pants.”

Alistair remained unconvinced. “Depends on the context and how you’re using the word.”

“How about we stop discussing this?” Because Malcolm was wondering when his brother had become Oghren, and the thought was more than a little disturbing. 

“Probably for the best.” Alistair resumed his pacing, his brow furrowing in worry.

Malcolm frowned. There had to be something Alistair had yet to tell him, because while his metaphor had been ill chosen, it’d been the truth. He continued to sit back in his chair as his brother paced, eyes roaming about the room before settling on a carving of twin mabari along the top frame of the door. He hadn’t noticed that before. It was fine work. Very understated. And something to look at while he waited for Alistair to tell him the rest of the news. When it became clear that his brother wouldn’t provide more information without prodding, Malcolm sighed and did so. “What else?”

“She, um, she wants to know where Morrigan went. She didn’t specify that telling her Morrigan’s whereabouts was a prerequisite for agreeing to Cáel’s legitimacy, but it was implied. Heavily implied. She could’ve beat me about the head with the implication.”

“I wonder if she’ll accept the answer that we really don’t know.”

Alistair paused his pacing again. “Do we really not know? She did explain it. Tried to, anyway, since she wasn’t exactly sure where it was she’d end up. I mean, she was fairly certain it’d be Arlathan, but no one knew for sure, including her. She probably knows _now_ , but it isn’t like we’ve gotten any confirmation. Really, we only know the mode of transportation she used.”

“Which isn’t what the Divine asked for. She wants to know where Morrigan is, not how she got there.”

“Really into that ‘letter of the law’ thing, aren’t you?”

“When it suits me.” Malcolm stood. “Does she want to meet him now? If she does, he’ll be fussy and possibly screamy since it’s nearly his bedtime. But, if Her Perfection is determined to see him right now, we can’t possibly decline her request.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Are you _trying_ to get her to disagree?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Wouldn’t take much trying. We could have Líadan come along. That’d make it a sure thing.”

“You know, I think I’ll arrange the meeting for when you’re in a better mood. Both you and Cáel. And Líadan is avoiding being near the Divine, in case you’ve forgotten. It means Thierry doesn’t have to be her shadow. Just in the general vicinity. In fact, the Divine has agreed that if Líadan is in the Warden compound, she doesn’t need a templar escort.”

“How nice of her.” It didn’t seem fair or right that the Divine could call the shots in the palace of Ferelden’s monarch, and even in the Grey Warden property on the palace grounds. Not that she hadn’t tested the extent of her influence at Vigil’s Keep, but still. It rankled.

Alistair either wasn’t as irritated with the Divine, or was much better at brushing it off. “I hope you aren’t this cranky for the meeting with the Divine or the Landsmeet in a few days. If both of them don’t go well, we’re out of luck. Not that Cáel won’t remain acknowledged, but it’ll be uncomfortable in many ways. Especially when Líadan has her child. It’s their welfare to think of as well, not just Cáel’s or your annoyance with the Divine and her demands.” He sighed and dropped his volume slightly. “Anora’s worried, about Líadan and your child with her, and not so much Cáel. She doesn’t let on much, but she’s spoken with me about it a couple times. Our influence as the reigning monarchs only goes so far in terms of how to control the Bannorn’s response. There isn’t a precedent for this that we know of, though she mentioned that she’s going to be looking more extensively in the palace records in the coming weeks. Were you married to her, it’d be a little easier, since at least the child wouldn’t be a bastard, even with the her being an elf thing. But since there’s really no way to prevent the child from being illegitimate, neither of us can imagine the Bannorn being thrilled.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair. “Added to that, Eamon is going to have kittens.”

“Do we really care what Eamon thinks?” Malcolm wished he could reassure his brother that his pending daughter wouldn’t be illegitimate since he was technically married to her mother, but it was still something Alistair couldn’t be privy to. Not yet. There was also the fact that Eamon was no longer chancellor, so they really shouldn’t be beholden to his set of ideals when it came to the line of Calenhad.

“No, not really. However, we can’t ignore that as the Arl of Redcliffe, he still has great influence over the Landsmeet as a whole. We can go against him, we can irritate him, but only to a certain extent before there’ll be backlash, even with as much a royalist as he is. He could see your child with Líadan as a threat to the line. And that could make things dangerous and possibly deadly, were any banns to get any ideas about getting into Eamon’s good graces by eliminating said threat.”

“Rather maudlin line of thought, don’t you think?”

Alistair smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring or touched by humor. It could scarcely be called rueful. “Anora thought of it, and it’s made her quite worried about attempts on Líadan’s life once she’s showing, or attempts on both her or the babe after she’s given birth. Like Eamon, some will view Líadan as a threat, as well. We both know that since Eamon’s made his feelings on the matter perfectly clear, and he’s not alone in those feelings. Would that he were, but he’s not.” Giving up on the pacing or standing still, Alistair collapsed into a nearby chair.

Malcolm crossed his arms, not liking what he was seeing in his brother’s expression. Alistair was supposed to be the optimist, and the look on his face was decidedly not. “You’re worried.”

“I don’t want to see them hurt any more than you do.” He drew a hand over his face. “Maybe you should consider having her go to the Dalish and live with them, if they’ll take her.”

“No.”

“At least until you could get the dispensation from—”

“No. Off the table. I’m not going to be separated from my family.” He barely kept himself from saying ‘wife,’ and that admission probably would’ve meant an argument, not that they weren’t toeing the line of one already. It certainly had the potential if either of them lost their grip on their tempers. “Besides, you’re the one who reminded me that if I’m not with her, I’ll miss everything Maric missed with us.”

“That was before I truly grasped the danger she’d be in. It isn’t like I _want_ you separated, but she’d be safe. They’d be safe. Maybe just give it some thought?” Alistair seemed more desperate and grasping at straws than set on the idea.

“No. If you and Anora force the issue, I’ll go with them.” He wouldn’t allow her to be taken from him. He wouldn’t. “I’m not going to miss my daughter being born. Think of something else to keep them safe.”

Alistair opened his mouth, as if to continue the argument, and then broke into a grin instead. “It’s a girl, then?”

“Wynne said so. I’d like to think she’s more than a pretty good healer, and they’re the ones who can tell that sort of thing before a baby is born.”

“If she turns out anything like Líadan, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

“I’m okay with that.” And he was. The idea filled him with a sense of contentment he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“All right.” Alistair nodded resolutely before standing up. “We’ll find another way. But we still have to meet with the Divine. Hopefully, at least Cáel will be sorted out soon. Then we can really set to figuring out this other child.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s grab a snack. You can bring some back to Líadan as an apology from me for keeping you here later than you should’ve been. Between that and the news about Thierry not having to hang out with her all the time in the compound, it should keep you out of trouble.”

Malcolm wasn’t as certain, but he went along with it. It was better than nothing. 

In the compound, food went ignored, the tray remaining covered where it rested on a table in the middle of what served as the Warden compound’s library. Many of the books and maps were missing, he noted. Probably looted or moved to one of the palace’s libraries, studies, or solars. It pained him to see what was supposed to be a library having shelves so bare.

When he gave Líadan the update about the Divine’s demands regarding templars, she reacted much the same as he had.

Compared to Líadan, Thierry was far more dramatic about the Divine’s decision. “Maker be praised! My prayers have been answered.”

“You realize you still have to accompany me outside the compound?” asked Líadan. “And that I have no intentions of being shut away like a criminal?”

“Most criminals in Denerim are hanged, actually,” Malcolm said without forethought, yet quietly.

Also not quietly enough, as Líadan switched to focus her ire on him. “Was that necessary?”

“They’re also imprisoned before they’re hanged,” he continued saying, hoping that if he kept talking, it’d keep her from clobbering him. “Unless, of course, they’re nobility, and then they’re faced with the headman’s sword instead of a noose. Then again, some crimes call for beheading, and if they’re commoners, they get the axe instead of a sword. It’s all very complicated. I think Rendon Howe should’ve gotten the axe, personally, with how he behaved. Loghain warranted the sword, though. And—”

“Nevermind,” said Líadan, who then returned to Thierry. 

Malcolm kept thinking about Loghain and his execution, and was surprised to find that part of him regretted the other man’s death. Especially since he’d come to know Anora so well, and truly did think of her as a sister. An at times know-it-all sister, but sister nonetheless, and it bothered him that he’d had a role in her father’s death. Loghain probably could’ve redeemed himself in some way beyond his conduct just before his execution. Maybe even could’ve become a Grey Warden, though he didn’t think Alistair would’ve agreed at the time. And with their troubles with Orlais they were having, his guidance, despite his rampant paranoia, might’ve been helpful. At least they had Cauthrien and her martial prowess. Anora was smart, but had nothing on Cauthrien when it came to the tactics and strategy of war.

“What’s got you so thoughtful?” Líadan asked.

He blinked and realized Thierry had gone. Wise man. “Loghain, still. About how he probably would’ve come in handy lately. And it’s different when I think of him as Anora’s father, rather than the man he’d been during the Blight. It’s clear she loved him very much.”

“Yes, she did.”

His curious look in her direction asked how she knew such a thing without him having to pose the question out loud.

“We’ve spoken about it before,” she said, and then shrugged. “You know, since we both have lost...” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. Was that all Alistair called you over for? He could’ve sent a page. That’s what they’re there for, so that he doesn’t pull his brother away from time spent with his family.”

If she only knew the half of it, Malcolm thought. Good thing she didn’t, because he didn’t think the guards would take well to an assault on the King’s person on the palace grounds. However, he needed to come up with an answer before she wheedled the other one from him. “No, it wasn’t.” Then he explained how the Divine wanted to meet Cáel, and how her approval of him hinged on certain information regarding Morrigan. “And... Alistair isn’t sure if you should go to the meeting.” At her fiery glare, he did his best to suppress his urge to flee. “He wasn’t sure if you wanted to go, because of the templar thing. Thierry and the following with the prevention of magic that you wouldn’t really use, because you’re smarter than that, and truly—”

As her glare faded, she held up her hand to make him stop talking. “It does make me hesitate to go. But—”

“Go where?” asked Nuala as she stepped down the corridor from the room she shared with Cáel. “We just got to Denerim. I didn’t think we’d be leaving so soon.”

“Oh, we’re staying,” said Malcolm, noting that she didn’t have Cáel with her, which meant the boy had fallen asleep while nursing. He did his best to ignore the disappointment and frustration with the Divine and her demands and how they disrupted what little time he had with his family. “It’s just, the Divine wants to meet Cáel. The whole legitimacy thing, you see. For some reason, she wants to meet him before she decides what she’ll do.”

Nuala crossed her arms and gave him a testy look. “And you don’t think Cáel’s mother should go?” 

Suddenly, the room that had been reasonably sized became cramped and stifling.

“That’s not what I said!” He threw out his arms in helpless exasperation. And just _when_ had Nuala become as intimidating as any of the Dalish women he knew? Maker’s mercy—that’s what he would need if he couldn’t figure out how to speak properly. “My main concern was that she wanted to avoid being around the Divine because that meant having Thierry attached to her at the hip, and I know full well she’s as sick of him as he is of her.” 

Líadan seemed to startle. “He’s sick of me?”

He turned to her, astonished at the surprise in her voice. “You can’t be serious. It isn’t like you’ve been nice to him or anything.” Her eyes widened and then narrowed in the first hints of anger, and he took a step back. “Not that your feelings on the matter aren’t warranted! They are. They totally are. I just—look, it isn’t pleasant when someone you have to be around all day gives you death glares constantly, and that’s when they’re being nice. Especially when it’s you. Your death glares are particularly effective. You’re even nicely providing an example right now.”

“You have previous experience with this?” Nuala asked him. While her arms were still crossed, her temper had yet to appear, and her voice held only curiosity.

He motioned toward Líadan. “She _hated_ me during the Blight.”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “I didn’t hate you.”

“Really.”

She sighed. “Maybe a little. You made a good target. Broad shoulders and all.”

“Zevran said that, didn’t he?”

“He reminded me of it on multiple occasions.”

“Is this what it was like during the Blight?” asked Nuala. “Because the stories they recount in taverns have nothing on the real thing, let me tell you. Not that the story going around is bad, but this is just so much better.” She dropped into one of the free chairs. “Tell me more, please.”

Malcolm wondered when Nuala had gotten so downright comfortable with them. When she’d first started as Cáel’s nurse, she’d had confidence, and the ability to look them all in the eye, as well as not be swayed by their positions in Fereldan society. But there had still been indications that she wasn’t entirely at ease. Now, however, she seemed completely at ease with both her job with Cáel, with her interactions with the Wardens, as well as her interactions with the royal family. Not that he minded, except for those times when he felt ganged up on, like moments earlier. 

Before he could say anything to keep from more tales being told, Líadan jumped in. “So you’ve nothing to say about the meeting with the Divine? Because it seemed liked you did.”

Nuala blinked. “I thought it was obvious you’d go. Much as you dislike having Thierry follow you, you aren’t one to hide. Kennard will be along, too, since he’s Cáel’s assigned guard. He and Thierry can awkwardly stare at each other as they wait outside during the meeting.”

“You leave me out of this,” Kennard called from down the corridor.

“Sometimes,” said Malcolm, “I think he’d be happier with the night watch on the ramparts during the height of winter.”

“And you’d have the right of it,” said Kennard. 

Líadan leaned against a half-filled bookcase and looked at Malcolm. “I take it you’d care to join him?”

It would be easier, he knew. Not as rewarding, though. Also very cold. “Not really, no. I like it here. Usually. When not being threatened.”

“Does that happen often?” Nuala asked. “The not being threatened.”

“In my dreams. They’re very nice dreams.”

“We don’t need to hear them,” said Sigrun as she strode lightly into the room. She immediately spotted the untouched food left on the table and went straight for it. “Oh! Food I don’t have to fight for!”

Malcolm gave her a puzzled look. “You do realize that the compound has its own kitchens and household staff, right? And that you can just ask them for food? Either from one of the servants or directly from the kitchens?”

Sigrun slowed her chewing. “No, hadn’t thought of that. Duster before the Legion, remember? It hasn’t quite sunken in yet that Wardens here live like nobles in the Diamond Quarter do.” She tilted her head in thought. “Less blood and death and backstabbing, though, from what I’ve heard from Hildur.”

“Weisshaupt has more coin than... well, the Wardens have a lot of coin. Plus, here we’re attached to the palace, so it would be strange to lack household staff. They know a lot more about keeping things kept and running here than any of us would.” And that they certainly did. When the group had stumbled in from their weeks on the road, they’d found the compound already cleaned, repaired, and ready for occupation once again. Hildur had even had some surface dwarves come through and install the same improvements they’d made at Highever, and were being implemented at Vigil’s Keep. Alistair had mentioned the palace steward having contracted them immediately upon seeing the work done in the Warden compound.

The Wardens had just been grateful for hot baths, plentiful food, and were all looking forward to clean, warm beds instead of bedrolls. After what seemed like forever living on the road, counting from the start of the Blight, Malcolm was warming up nicely to the idea of being settled for a while. “So make use of the staff, and as long as you treat them with respect, don’t feel bad about doing so. It’s their jobs, and because they work for the Wardens, they are compensated quite well. It should go without saying—but I’ll say it, anyway—that if you see any of them being treated unfairly or abused for whatever reason, be it race or social station or whatever, tell me or tell Alistair, and it will be taken care of. The palace’s steward, Warrick, should have done a good job of vetting the staff, but you never know.”

He was fairly certain the staff would be fine, and really didn’t think any of the Wardens would be abusive or take advantage, but he would be remiss if he said nothing. And he didn’t want his staff to be subjected to anything like what the Arl of Denerim’s household was rumored to be. How that man even kept a full staff, if the rumors were true, he’d never know. 

In the morning, Kennard and Thierry did accompany them, while Nuala remained at the compound, arranging time to visit her family in the Elven Quarter. They’d decided it would be better if Líadan held Cáel instead of Nuala going with them, as if to show exactly who they considered Cáel’s mother to be. Alistair and Anora met the group at the compound’s private entrance to the palace. At seeing Líadan, Anora gave a slight nod. “Calculated risk, but a good show of where our willingness to compromise ends,” she said.

“If you say so,” said Alistair. “Personally, I think it’ll just irritate her more. I thought we were trying to avoid that?”

Anora sighed. “To an extent. But we must not allow ourselves to be bullied, either. She cannot be allowed to determine Ferelden’s heirs.”

“Seems that could be better accomplished by not pissing her off.”

“Then I would advise you to say as little as possible.”

Alistair winced. “Oh, ow.” Hand over his wounded heart, he headed in the direction of the solar where they’d arranged for the meeting to take place.

The Divine immediately narrowed her eyes at Líadan when they entered. Thierry said nothing, and remained standing near the door. Kennard, on seeing Thierry posted in the solar, stood on the opposite side of the door from Thierry instead of leaving to wait outside. It seemed Kennard wasn’t taking any chances with his charge, either. The Knight-Vigilant’s gaze practically skipped over Líadan in favor of studying Cáel. 

Renaud shook his head. “Well, that answers our first question. The boy is without question a Theirin.”

Malcolm felt vaguely insulted. It wasn’t like anyone other than him would’ve taken Morrigan’s word on the identity of Cáel’s father if Cáel hadn’t resembled his father’s side of the family. He wasn’t dumb, and his brother and sister-in-law were far from it, as well. If Cáel did not resemble a Theirin, they would never seek legitimacy for him, and most certainly not a place in the line of succession. Even as he fought his indignance, Malcolm still almost blanched when the Divine focused her piercing gaze on him.

“So you do intend to allow a mage to play a part in raising your son?” she asked him. 

Before he could answer, Líadan spoke up. “I made a promise. Surely you don’t advocate the breaking of vows.” The lack of honorific did not go unnoticed by Renaud, who stopped studying the boy in order to glare at Líadan, followed by raising an expectant eyebrow.

She ignored him.

The Divine, in turn, ignored Líadan, and kept her attention on Malcolm. “Did you give any thought about a mage’s influence on your son before you agreed to this... arrangement?”

He willed himself not to become angry, and mostly succeeded. “You speak as if any mage is already under the influence of a demon, Most Holy.” Maker’s blood, the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant hadn’t even gone through introductions to Cáel before they’d gone on the attack. Babe he might be, but Cáel did deserve common courtesy, not to mention the King and Queen. Perhaps that was beyond Orlesians when it came to Fereldans. He, on the other hand, would remain civil and use the manners Teyrna Eleanor had drilled into him.

“It is a valid concern,” said Renaud. “One you should not blind yourself to.”

“Then you have no faith in your barbaric Harrowing if that’s true,” said Líadan, her grip on Cáel visibly tightening as she drew him closer. “Either you believe it works or you don’t. And if you don’t think the Harrowing works, you should stop doing it. It’s a waste of time and lives if even _you_ think it ineffective.”

Malcolm, recalling what’d happened at Kinloch Hold during the Blight, was inclined to agree. Every single enchanter who’d voluntarily or involuntarily joined Uldred had been Harrowed. The only exceptions were the children and apprentices. They hadn’t stood a chance in the face of Uldred’s blood-derived power. Malcolm exchanged a haunted look with Alistair; he’d thought much the same as him.

“You are not Harrowed,” Regula said to Líadan.

Líadan lifted her chin, as if she needed to communicate her already abundantly clear defiance. “Nor will I be.”

“It wouldn’t be possible at the moment, regardless,” Renaud said quietly.

Malcolm wondered what, exactly, _that_ meant. He considered asking, but then caught the subtle shake of Thierry’s head. Well, then. It appeared Thierry knew, which meant it probably wasn’t good news, but he hadn’t gotten his hopes up in the first place.

If the Divine knew what Renaud’s comment meant, she didn’t indicate it. Instead, she pursed her lips in reaction to a sour thought of her own. Then she said to the entire room, “It seems there are mages everywhere where this child is concerned.” Then she moved, far more quickly than anyone would’ve suspected a woman of her age to be able, to stand just in front of Cáel. She stooped over, held her head mere inches from the boy’s face, and studied him intently. Though the sour tightness of her mouth didn’t lessen, some disapproval abated within her eyes, as if the child had passed some sort of muster. It could’ve been as little as him being human, and not a demon. 

Regula straightened and stepped back, away from Líadan. She still hadn’t so much as looked her in the eye, and had the Divine been anyone else, Malcolm would’ve already had words to say. From the way Líadan’s jaw flexed, he could tell she was close to losing hold on her own flurry of words.

If she let go, that would be bad, to say the least. There would be shouting, and smiting, and possibly injury and death of various parties, and they’d really had enough of that before, in Highever. Expecting women were supposed to take it easy, right? Ha. She’d punch him for that one, if she knew. 

The Divine cleared her throat and regarded Malcolm once more. “It’s my understanding that this child’s—” She stopped and finally acknowledged Líadan in a way by giving her a strange sort of look before returning to Malcolm. “— _birth_ mother was an apostate mage, one still wanted in suspicion of being a maleficar.” She held up a hand to forestall the Fereldan protests. “That matter is not my concern, for now. What does concern me is the question of the boy’s abilities. What if this child is a mage? We should test to assure that he is not before he’s placed in a royal line of succession.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting to put him through the Harrowing,” said Malcolm. “Because we both know how well that went with me, Most Holy.” The honorific held a certain bitterness when he spoke it, and he was beginning to understand why Líadan dispensed with it entirely.

Líadan, on her part, had retreated more than a few steps from the Divine and the Knight-Vigilant, her arms wrapped protectively around Cáel. Holding him, she wouldn’t be able to fight if the issue was pressed, and so she’d have to flee if it came to it. She backed up far enough that she bumped into Alistair, who put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, reminding her that he wouldn’t allow that to happen any more than she would. 

“No,” said Regula, her gaze darting over to the boy. “It would be unwise on one so young.”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Your Perfection, there’s no known record of magical abilities showing in a babe. The youngest recorded mage was, what? Four?”

“Three years and ten months,” said Renaud. 

Alistair’s eyes flicked toward the Knight-Vigilant in annoyance, but the glare went ignored, and Alistair looked back at the Divine. “Either way, you wouldn’t be able to tell right now, or for quite some time.”

“Then perhaps Ferelden should wait to allow him into the line of succession to Calenhad’s throne, until such a time when it can be proven this child is no mage.”

“There is no precedent for that, Most Holy,” came Anora’s voice, sounding as sharp as possible while still being diplomatic. “Not for a legitimate or legitimized child in any noble or royal family. Only after a child is found to be a mage are they prohibited from inheriting, even in a line known for its potential for magic. Connor Guerrin of Redcliffe, for example, was not disinherited until his magic was discovered. Not before, even with Arlessa Isolde’s family history of mages. As such, there are rules and laws already in place should any heir show magic. It would not do to break them on mere suspicion.”

“He will bear watching,” said Renaud. “Close watching.” As if to illustrate, he stared at the boy, who’d since tucked his head under Líadan’s chin.

The sour expression dropped from the Divine’s face, and her look nearly became warm in comparison. “Yet, for now, he is a mere child, and nothing more dangerous than that.” She nodded decisively to herself, and then turned to Alistair and Anora. “If your Landsmeet grants the legitimacy and his place in your line, I will approve it.”

Watching Alistair’s face visibly relax at the pronouncement, and catching the hints of Anora’s anxiety disappearing, Malcolm wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or not, himself. With Alistair having been a Grey Warden longer than him, and Anora never having had a child with Cailan, there was a chance the two of them would never have a direct heir of their own. That would mean the throne would revert to _him_ in the event of Alistair’s death, and then it would fall to Cáel when he died. That was in theory, however, since he knew he and Líadan planned on their Callings being with Alistair. They wouldn’t let him go alone. So, unless his brother managed to succeed where Cailan hadn’t, the throne would end up with Cáel. 

It wasn’t exactly the kind of future he wished for his son. The recent history of Ferelden’s throne was too fraught with danger. Cáel’s great-grandmother had been murdered at the hands of her own banns, his grandfather left to lead a rebellion, his uncle betrayed by his father-in-law, not to mention the unkind fate left to the other Theirins who’d existed before the Orlesians attempted to wipe them out. Or the fact that Alistair had to fight for his throne, much as their father before them.

Anora, along with Alistair, made their gratitude known to the Divine, and then Alistair ushered his brother and the rest of the party from the room. Líadan, with Cáel beginning to fuss from hunger, headed toward the Warden compound, Thierry and Kennard walking alongside her. Before Cáel had made his hunger known, she’d looked as if she’d had something to say. Several things, if Malcolm suspicions were correct.

“Did you forget how to say thank you?” Alistair asked once it was just he and Anora and Malcolm in the corridor, and the thick wooden door to the solar closed behind them.

“No. I just wasn’t sure if I was. If you two don’t have an heir, then Cáel ends up with your kingdom. Don’t forget, you didn’t want to become king, I never want to be king, and I certainly don’t want Cáel to be saddled with it.”

“I see your point.” Alistair let out a small sigh. “But still, if you ever want to marry Líadan, you should really try to be nice to the Divine, or she’ll never grant a dispensation.”

Malcolm considered the closed door. “Maybe I should just wait for the next Divine, instead. We haven’t many bridges left unburnt with this one.”


	33. Chapter 33

  
“In those days, even after the devastation of the first Blight, the Imperium stretched across the known world. Fringed with barbarian tribes, the Imperium was well prepared for invasions and attacks from without. Fitting, then, that the story of its downfall begins from within.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

****Alistair, Anora, and Malcolm were still chatting outside the solar when Knight-Vigilant Renaud exited. He raised his eyebrow slightly at noticing they were there before he shut the door behind him. Alistair answered Renaud’s eyebrow with one of his own, and then asked, “You’re leaving the Divine alone?”

“She decided she would like a nap on one of the divans warmed by the sun,” said Renaud.

“Wynne does that,” said Malcolm. “It’s an old person thing. Mage or Divine or baby, no one can ignore the summons of a nap. Maybe that’s why the meeting was a lot shorter than I thought it’d be?”

Renaud shook his head. “Not exactly. I presume you noticed that Her Perfection did not inquire on the whereabouts of the maleficar?”

“Which one?” asked Malcolm. “I bet you’d find bunches in Tevinter.”

“You know perfectly well which one to whom I refer.”

Oh, Renaud was getting all proper with his grammar, Malcolm realized. A sign of certain frustration. He took a bit of pleasure in knowing they’d thrown the templar off his game. “If you’re talking about Morrigan, let me reassure you, yet again, that she isn’t a maleficar. She never has, nor ever will, use blood magic.”

Renaud’s jaw flexed as he worked to regain his patience. “So far as you know.”

He shrugged. “I do know pretty far. She hates it. Thinks it’s only for weak mages who lust for power they cannot manifest on their own. Considering she’s probably one of the most powerful mages this side of Thedas, I think it’s safe to say she doesn’t lust for more.” Not even when she would have her inevitable fight with Flemeth for her very soul. Using blood magic would weaken her body, and her will, rendering her vulnerable to demons who’d forcefully take her body and make her an abomination. If she chose to use another’s life’s blood to fuel her spells, it would create too strong of a reliance on someone other than herself. He was fairly certain she’d rather give herself to her mother over suffering that kind of indignity. That if she couldn’t muster the power herself, she wouldn’t think herself worthy of saving. 

How Cianán worked into that kind of worldview, Malcolm wasn’t quite sure. Considering he was a key to saving Morrigan from Flemeth, he suspected it most likely had to do with combined power and working together as a team. Or, since the boy was something she had made, had created and given birth to, she might just view Cianán as an extension of herself. Or something of the like. Morrigan was a tough one to figure out. He was, however, absolutely certain she would never use blood magic.

“This argument really isn’t necessary anymore, is it?” asked Alistair. “Morrigan is gone and it’s doubtful any of us will even be alive when she returns. _If_ she returns.”

Renaud twisted the tip of his flowing mustache. “So it’s as I suspected. She is gone.”

“Quite,” said Anora.

Malcolm peered at one of the tapestries in an effort to distract himself, but he couldn’t hold the question in any longer. “All right, the curiosity is killing me. Why didn’t the Divine ask? Why haven’t _you_ asked outright, Knight-Vigilant?”

Renaud sighed, and his hand dropped from his mustache. “Her Perfection felt it was immoral to hinge the fate of a child on information that could not even be acted upon.”

“Are you sure she’s Orlesian?” Alistair asked Anora.

Before Anora could answer, Renaud sighed. “As I said before, Her Perfection is not... herself.”

It was like the Knight-Vigilant was extending a gaudy, lavish invitation to make a smart remark observing Her Perfection and her many imperfections. Malcolm gritted his teeth as he held back from speaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alistair doing the same. 

Anora, noticing that both Theirins were quiet only because they couldn’t think of a thing to say that was nice, stepped in. “As we gathered, Knight-Vigilant.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Renaud began to step away from them to take a post at the door. Then he seemed to think better of it and spun around, holding up an index finger. “One more thing before you go, Malcolm.” He ducked his head. “And Your Majesties.”

Malcolm refused to rise to the bait of the slight, even though it was fellow GreyWardens or family who were allowed to refer to him by his name, and not any titles. Especially not when an insufferable, high-ranking templar refused to do so, and meant it an insult and not a friendly gesture. He felt a little bit better when Anora gave him a grateful look for keeping quiet.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” said Alistair, “but, what is it?”

“You know the reason why I recommended we not perform a Harrowing on Warden Líadan?” asked Renaud. 

Malcolm lost the battle, his patience fleeing him at the Chantry’s refusal to let go of their Harrowing idea. Even talking about it raised his ire. “You mean other than because it would be monumentally stupid?”

“Stupid for reasons other than what you assume, Your Highness,” said Renaud. 

How someone half a head shorter than him could look _down_ at him, Malcolm didn’t know. And as much as he’d been irritated by Renaud not using his title before, him using it as an epithet rankled even more. 

When it became clear that Malcolm would merely keep glaring at Renaud instead of interrupting him, the Knight-Vigilant continued. “Chantry records are quite clear about horrific outcomes from Harrowings where the mage subjected to the ritual was with child.”

 _Thierry was right_. Malcolm swore under his breath and turned away from the Knight-Vigilant, hands going to rest on the top of his head only because putting them over his face to hide from the world would look ridiculous. Nothing, however, stopped the cold fear that skittered over his skin. It was too soon. Far too soon, and the Chantry was very much the wrong organization to know about this. Her. Them.

“I gather from your reaction that I am correct in my reasoning to refrain from pushing a Harrowing,” said Renaud. “Because if I am not, I see no reason why we should continue to allow an unharrowed mage to spend so much time with Ferelden’s rulers. It is an undue influence. Were she Harrowed, like Senior Enchanter Wynne, our objections would be much lessened.”

Malcolm didn’t fail to notice that the objections would merely be ‘lessened’ and not withdrawn.

Alistair sighed. “Somehow, I’d managed to forget how observant templars are trained to be. Observant and sneaky about it, too. Never letting on, so that the mages would feel safe in your presence, forget themselves, and perhaps reveal things they would never mean to.”

“So I am—”

“ _Yes_.” Alistair sounded annoyed. There was an intake of breath from him, as if he had more to say, but he cut himself off.

“If you could keep it to yourself for a while longer, Knight-Vigilant,” said Anora, speaking up as soon as Alistair gave her the chance, “the Crown would be most grateful.”

The request initially met with silence. “You ask many favors. I am not sure how many I am inclined to grant,” Renaud said at length.

Malcolm let his hands go back to his sides before he turned to see Renaud’s expression. His voice was so even that he couldn’t be sure if the templar was threatening them or just exasperated with the situation, rendering him empty of patience. Unfortunately, Renaud’s face was just as mild as his tone.

Anora’s voice, in contrast, was sharp. “After the accidental consecration and subsequent confiscation of Fereldan land by the Chantry you serve, Knight-Vigilant, I think some discretion on private matters would not be too much trouble.”

He considered the Queen for a moment, and then nodded, holding it just long enough to appear as a respectful bow. “Her Perfection will have to be told, but... perhaps that can wait until she has left the country. I would not like to see her overwhelmed, as busy as this trip already is. You have my promise that I will refrain from releasing the information until we have left Ferelden.”

“Thank you,” said Anora.

Renaud looked expectant, as if he were waiting for them to ask another favor. Probably the dispensation he had to assume Malcolm, along with the Fereldan Crown, would want in order for him to marry his impending child’s mother. But Renaud had made it more than clear that the Chantry wouldn’t be granting any further favors.

No one bothered asking.

“Then if you will excuse me, Your Majesties,” Renaud said with a slight bow, “I must attend to my duties.”

The three of them left the Knight-Vigilant standing outside the solar, keeping guard for the Divine as she napped. Before they strode out of sight, Malcolm glanced back to see Renaud staring at the wall across from him, the fingers of his left hand idly stroking his mustache.

Thierry had been like that before he’d shaved his after being recruited by Hildur. Though he did it much less lately, every now and then the other Wardens caught him trying to stroke a mustache that was no longer there. It seemed those Orlesian templars who sported the damn things were more than a little obsessed with them. Part of Malcolm could understand; if he were capable of growing such a thing, he’d be proud of it, too, and maybe preoccupied by it. “I wonder if I could grow a mustache like that,” Malcolm said out loud.

“You’d never get that far,” Alistair said as Anora laughed softly. “Líadan would shave it off in your sleep before a week was up.” He glanced back at his younger brother. “I haven’t forgotten the story you told me about trying to grow a beard while you were at Weisshaupt.”

Malcolm scowled. “It was _cold_. Oghren told me his beard keeps his face warm in the winter. I thought I’d give it a try, considering.”

“And you believe everything Oghren tells you? Because if you do, you should ask him about how dwarven babies are hatched from rocks warmed in lava.”

He stopped and stared. “That can’t be true. Is it? No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.” The fact that it wasn’t true made him a bit sad. Otherwise, it would’ve been an awesome way to be born. But thinking about myths about how dwarven babies were born made him think about his own, and the momentary distraction fled. The cold tendril of fear returned, dreading what might happen when the rest of Ferelden found out about Líadan. Once he felt it, the fear refused to leave him alone. It plagued him as he parted ways with his brother and sister-in-law, and saw the same fear mirrored in Alistair’s eyes. Anora’s own expression was more guarded, but Malcolm knew she couldn’t be comfortable with the Knight-Vigilant knowing. Anora’s careful plans would be thrown awry if Renaud went back on his word, and Anora found security in her planning. Without it, she suffered from vulnerability just like anyone else, and that vulnerability made her quite disagreeable. He wasn’t jealous of his brother, that was for sure.

Anora and Alistair took their leave, claiming hundreds of things to do and no time to do it in with the Landsmeet fast approaching. Malcolm had no real duties regarding the Landsmeet aside from attending, and before that, listening to Anora when she went over what he’d be doing during the Landsmeet. Hildur had told him he’d be her representative for Vigil’s Keep, since she needed to go to Kinloch Hold to fetch mage recruits, provided she could wheedle them out of Greagoir. He didn’t envy her the task. They’d only gotten Greagoir’s grudging approval for getting the mages to help during a sodding _Blight_ , and had even returned them afterward. Well, aside from Wynne. Perhaps that was where the long-standing grudge came from. Then again, Wynne did pretty much whatever she wanted, and it was quite clear she didn’t yet want to return to the Tower. Not that he blamed her. Or anyone blamed her, really, aside from templars, and probably the Divine.

The palace’s staff zipped every which way through the corridors, pages carrying message after message, squires scowling as they were made to do the same, all in preparation for the Landsmeet. Malcolm did his best to stay out of their way as he headed for the Warden compound, eager to be in its relative quiet. Not that he loved silence, but the activity level in the palace proper was draining, even for him. It also helped that being around the Wardens assigned to the compound was relaxing. Only lately had he really begun to understand how connected Alistair had been to all the Wardens who’d perished at Ostagar, how very much a family they were. The staff assigned to the compound had carefully put the belongings left behind in a storeroom for Alistair to go through, since he was the only Fereldan Warden left alive who’d known them. Though their deaths had been more than two years ago, Alistair had almost been brought to tears at the staff’s thoughtfulness. He’d not made it through the storeroom door before they’d fallen, and so it remained closed and locked.

If only memories could be so securely stowed away. The fear at idea of the Knight-Vigilant knowing about Líadan refused to vacate his mind, even as he tried to think of everything else that popped into his head. He worked to keep his face from showing what he was thinking, but he couldn’t school his features as well as he’d have liked to, especially if the person observing him knew him well. Líadan would notice immediately, would question him, and would not let the subject drop until she had an answer. 

Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d be seeing Wynne. Or she and Bethany would be working on mage-type stuff and leave him alone. 

Or, he realized as he stepped through a compound empty of Wardens and populated only by a few servants readying the midday meal, she could be sparring with someone out in the training area. Definitely some luck there—he’d get to watch her, which was always pleasant, and she wouldn’t be able to question him. She might not even notice something was wrong because she’d be concentrating on her opponent. 

He followed the sound of fighting and laughter out into the ringed area the Wardens used to train. Grass had once grown there, but years of Grey Warden boots had crushed the grass, trampled it, and all that remained was dirt. Líadan and Sigrun were sparring in the middle, with Bethany looking on, standing at least six feet away from Oghren. The dwarf, for once, looked to be assessing actual martial ability rather than leering. Either that, or Oghren had learned to better hide his leering. Bethany looked both mildly interested and slightly irritated. Malcolm leaned up against the fence rail in between Oghren and Bethany, leaving an equal amount of space between them and him. 

“Fight’s gone on way longer than I thought it would,” said Oghren. “I thought the elf would be too tired to deal with Sigrun. But she seems to be doing just fine. Something’s different about her technique, though, and I can’t place exactly what it is. It’s bugging me.”

Ah, that would explain the uncharacteristically obvious attention to detail from Oghren. It wasn’t that Oghren didn’t normally pay attention, because he did. He just didn’t tend to let on until he unleashed deep, meaningful observations later, when well into his cups. “Is she hurt and hiding it?” Malcolm asked.

Oghren shook his head. “No. That’s a different shift in her style. I’ve seen that before, at least. Not this, though.”

“She reminds me of my sister,” said Bethany.

“What, she’s elfy? Your sister is an elf?” asked Oghren.

“No. Bossy. Forceful. Compelling, some would say.” Where Bethany had started out sounding pleasant, bitterness had crept into her tone the more she spoke of her sister.

Malcolm stared straight ahead and out at the two sparring women. Apparently there was some sibling rivalry going on that needed to be worked through, and he really didn’t want to get caught up in the crossfire. If he said something, anything, he’d stick his foot in his mouth and Bethany would probably set him on fire. And afterward, while he was burning, Oghren would be too busy laughing to help douse the flames. No, better to keep quiet. If he’d learned anything in the past couple of years, it was that he often came out better in the end if he kept his mouth shut. Didn’t mean he practiced that lesson as much as he should, but he certainly recognized it was there. 

“Hot,” said Oghren, who’d never been clued into that particular lesson.

“Also,” said Bethany, “a mage. And she fights like Líadan is right now. Usually, Marian doesn’t use her magic, unless it’s channeling some sort of damage through her sword, but other times, she has to reach for more than she’s physically capable of, and she’ll use magic to sustain herself. In other words, cheating.”

“I’m not cheating,” Líadan said as she jumped out of the way of Sigrun’s wooden daggers. Then she lashed out with her wooden staff—Wynne had encouraged her to practice with a staff more than her daggers, something about being more accepting of her magic leading to a better ability to learn to heal. Malcolm had also overheard something regarding staying decidedly out or at least on the fringes of battle should they encounter one. That left either magic or the bow. Neither suggestion had gone over well. Early that morning, Líadan _had_ taken out the bow Malcolm had given her weeks before, but that was as far as she’d gotten. The bow remained on the wooden chest of drawers in the room they shared.

Sigrun ducked the swing, scraping low against the ground. When she came up, she extended her hand and tossed dirt gathered from around her feet into Líadan’s face and eyes. The Dalish elf swiped at her face with her free hand in an attempt to clear her vision and her mouth, but the match was over before she could.

Sigrun leapt and knocked her flat on her back, both daggers held at Líadan’s throat. “I win. That means you wear the helmet.”

“You’re a dirty cheater.” Líadan scowled and pushed the tips of Sigrun’s daggers away. “Deal’s off. I’m not wearing the helmet if you don’t beat me fairly.”

“Oh, come on. You used magic. I could tell.” Sigrun motioned toward the other Wardens who were watching. “ _They_ could tell. You cheated just as much.”

“Magic doesn’t even work well on dwarves. Whatever magic I used was just to keep me from getting overtired.”

“I know you’re overtired. I wouldn’t have made that bet, otherwise.” Sigrun sighed and got to her feet. “Any other time, our bout would’ve gone on forever, leaving us both too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of our labors, or however you surfacers put it.” She sighed again, and then helped Líadan to her feet. “All right, so I feel slightly guilty about taking advantage of your condition.”

That made Líadan raise an eyebrow. “And not about the dirt?”

“Tried and true tactic. Dusters never fight clean. You should know that by now. And it isn’t like the darkspawn follow the so-called rules of engagement, either.”

“So why the guilt? Because what you said is bullshit and you really just took advantage because you wanted me to wear the helm?”

“What helm?” Malcolm asked, no longer able to take the suspense. He also needed a distraction from Líadan pouring water from the waterskin over her face to wash off the dirt Sigrun had thrown at her. 

To his surprise, Bethany chuckled from next to him before reaching down to take a curious-looking helmet from a cloth sack. “This one. We found it in one of the closets.” Before she could say anything more, her chuckles turned into giggles.

Unable to deal with the giggling—especially when Sigrun and Líadan joined in—he stared at the horned helm. Then he said, “It’s Chasind, actually. I read somewhere that the helmet’s meant to frighten more than protect.” His statement only made them laugh more, and he couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like he didn’t know a few things about the Chasind; he _was_ educated. He sighed. “Whatever. I’ll wear it.” Then he took the helm from Bethany’s hands and put it on his head.

Whereupon the others burst into gales of laughter that showed no signs of stopping. Even Oghren joined in, his laughs rumbling and low. Then he said, “Oh, that’s frightful, all right. I need a flagon after seeing that. Or at least lunch.” He glanced around at the other Wardens as the laughter began to die down. “And the rest of you?”

“I’m in.” Sigrun dusted herself off and started heading for the bins where practice weapons were kept during the day. 

Bethany gave Oghren a quick nod. “I am, as well. After all the food we were forced to eat at either the Hanged Man or at Gamlen’s, I don’t think I could ever eat enough of the food here. Oh, and Fereldan ale. Tell me there’s ale.”

Oghren grinned. “Oh, now you’re talking Oghren’s talk, fine lady.” He glanced over at Malcolm. “What about you? You coming along? Or have you got boss work to do before you’re allowed to eat? We could tap a keg and leave no one the wiser except us Wardens.”

Malcolm wanted to go. He very much wanted to go and wanted many of those flagons, because then he could forget, at least for a time, about everything going on. Which meant he knew he shouldn’t go with the others, and especially not with Oghren the Enabler. “Stuff to do. Things of a boring nature.” However, he couldn’t seem to remember what he needed to do to get ready for the Landsmeet. He still had to meet with Alistair and Anora to conference about that. They hadn’t wanted to plan until they knew what the Divine would say in response if the Landsmeet granted their petition. And aside from wearing armor and carrying a sword, one really couldn’t rightly prepare for a Fereldan Landsmeet. Not entirely.

“Your loss.” Oghren shrugged to emphasize, and then turned to Líadan. “You going to stay here? Pry that stick of moodiness out of his arse?”

At her nod, and the determined set of her brow, Malcolm sighed again.

As soon as the other Wardens had left, Líadan turned her expectant eyes on him from where she’d taken a seat on the packed dirt. “What’s wrong?”

He climbed up to sit on the fence’s top rail, hooking his feet under the bottom rung to help with his balance. He knew he had to tell her, but he just didn’t want to _think_ about it, which was part of why Oghren’s offer of tapping a keg had been so appealing. And the longer Líadan didn’t know, the less she’d worry and have the same problem he was having. While he couldn’t very well not tell her soon, he figured he could give her a few more minutes. Any longer than that, and she was likely to kill him when she did find out. “Dwarven babies come from rocks,” he said.

“I—what?”

“Rocks. That’s what Alistair told me. Said Oghren told him. Something about lava and hatching? Maybe he got the details wrong.”

She seemed no less confused than before, but appeared to go along with his strange turn in topic. “Maybe that’s the story they tell dwarven children when they ask where babies come from, and the parents aren’t ready to relay the actual details.”

Malcolm looked up from his contemplation of his boots. “What were you told as a kid?”

“Maybe the Dalish are mature enough to just tell their children the truth.”

“Sure.” He paused to consider her for a moment, trying to judge if she were telling the truth or not. He went with the ‘or not.’ “So, what’d your parents tell you?”

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet to walk over to where he sat on the fence, squinting when the midday sun broke over the palace walls to bathe the yard in direct light. “That Ghilan’nain sent a halla carrying a babe and left him or her outside the aravel in the night.”

He did his best, he really did, but his shoulders shook with his chuckle before it escaped.

Líadan lightly smacked him in the arm. “Don’t laugh. I was _five_. I do think being hatched from rocks makes for a better story, though.”

“You’ve been listening to Oghren again, haven’t you?” Sigrun asked as she came back into the practice yard. 

“Alistair has.” Malcolm jumped from the fence. If Sigrun was coming back out, it meant something really good was being served for the midday meal, and she’d come to get them before Oghren ate everything. “I was merely repeating the information.”

“I hope you didn’t believe him, whatever he said.”

He scoffed. “Of course not.” After a pause as they began to follow Sigrun into the compound’s building, he said, “I kind of wanted to, though. Warmed in lava? Hatched from rocks?”

“That is one of his better stories, I’ll admit. Velanna totally fell for it.” Then Sigrun launched into the story as they took their seats and joined in the midday meal. 

With all the storytelling, Malcolm managed to forget about the sobering news he’d received that morning. As a consequence, he forgot to tell Líadan until Alistair appeared at the compound late in the afternoon. It didn’t even cross his mind until he actually saw Alistair poking around the nearly empty library. By then, it was too late, because Líadan was right behind him after they’d helped put Cáel down for a nap. It wasn’t like he could just trot right back out of the library to tell her what was going on. Well, he could, but it wouldn’t do him any good. She’d know he’d forgotten. Blast. 

“Oh, there you are,” said Alistair as he straightened from perusing the shelves.

“It wasn’t like you were going to find me in a book.” Malcolm gave his brother a wary look, knowing full well Alistair only played this kind of game when he had something unpleasant to do. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I just came to see how the place cleaned up.” Alistair ran a finger along one of the bare shelves, and then inspected it for dust. He found none. “Cleaned up pretty well, I think. Bit bare, though. You’ll have to do something about that. Recruits, Warden histories, suits of armor, weapons and such. Most of the good stuff must’ve been looted during the Blight. Pity.” 

Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “Anora sent you, didn’t she?”

The King sighed. “Anora asked, very nicely, that I speak with you and Líadan. She would’ve come along with me, but Wynne had asked to see her.” 

“Is this about Cáel and the Landsmeet?” Líadan asked as she plucked the book from Alistair’s hand and sat down. 

“No, not exactly.” Alistair scowled at the pilfered book, and then met Líadan’s eyes. “In case Malcolm forgot to tell you, we know for certain that Renaud knows about you.”

Líadan’s brows drew together in what would be a dangerous frown if the discussion continued along the path Malcolm knew it would continue along. “Of course he knows about me. He’s one of the two people who demanded Thierry follow me everywhere.”

“Not about that,” said Alistair. “About...” he trailed off and motioned toward Líadan. “You know. Your situation.”

“My...” She tilted her head to the side and regarded him curiously. “Alistair, just what did they teach you about where babies come from while you were in the Chantry?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Um, it was something about flying dogs and mabari and appearing on doorsteps. Wait, no, that’s the story Teagan made up when I asked him as a boy. The Chantry’s version involved... you know, I’m not sure what it involved. I knew it wasn’t true, though. I always knew Teagan wouldn’t have lied to me, and his version was better. Flying dogs!” He finally stopped and seemed to consider the purpose of Líadan’s question. “Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to figure out why you can’t name the situation directly. I know why _I_ have trouble, but it’s for entirely different reasons than yours, whatever they are.”

Alistair threw his arms in the air. “Andraste’s flaming sword! With child! Renaud knows you’re with child. He told us as much this morning. It might not be as bad as we think. He did promise he would keep it to himself and not tell the Divine or anyone else until they’ve left Ferelden.” He dropped into a chair, propped his elbow on an armrest, and then his chin in his hand, studying Líadan as he waited for her reaction.

The book snapped shut in her hands, but she said nothing for a very long moment. Her eyes remained on the book’s worn leather cover while her fingers absently traced over the bosses at the corners. When her gaze flicked over to Malcolm, it contained the message he assumed it would: _a little warning would have been nice._ But it was tinged with a hint of fear, which was quickly extinguished by determination even as he watched. She returned her look to Alistair. “This will rend Anora’s plan to tatters.”

Alistair placed his hands on the tops of his legs, as if bracing himself. Then he said, “You might need a bodyguard, once this gets out to the general public. Or before, maybe.”

She straightened in her chair as her limbs went taut with tension. “I’m a Grey Warden and a Dalish hunter, one who is constantly surrounded by Grey Wardens. And if I’m in the palace, also the royal guards. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I think you might be overly worried, as you tend to be when your family is involved.”

Malcolm couldn’t deny that she was right about Alistair and his caution about the safety of his family members, but he wasn’t sure if he agreed that she’d be fine without assigned guards. They just had no way of knowing how everyone would react. Perhaps they’d be pleasantly surprised. Perhaps not. But it was certainly better safe than sorry, especially when the consequences of being ill prepared could mean injury or death.

Alistair slumped in his chair, yet managed to maintain eye contact with Líadan. “Anora’s worried, too.”

“She is?” Some of the firmness in Líadan’s voice faded on hearing about the Queen’s concern. Whereas Alistair reacted with his emotions at first, Anora tended toward practicality. So when Anora said she was worried or concerned, she was, and for good, logical reasons.

“Yes.” Alistair nodded, an apology warming his eyes. “She wants to speak with Cauthrien about it, but wanted to clear it with you first before she spoke with anyone else. Said it was the least she could do to respect what little privacy you have left.”

The fight seemed to go out of Líadan, her jerky movements reminding Malcolm of a cornered fox. She went quiet again, her legs shifting in want to pace, but she kept to her seat. “It won’t be a secret much longer, will it?”

Alistair slowly shook his head, looking no less apologetic than before. “No. Not if the Knight-Vigilant knows. Not sure if he’s kept his word about not telling the Divine, but I can’t imagine he’d really hold something like that back from her, even if he promised us otherwise. It wasn’t like we could’ve forced him to swear to Andraste that he’d keep quiet.”

“You _should_ have.” Líadan practically threw the statement at him, having found a target for her frustration.

The King didn’t so much as flinch. “Maybe. But even if we had, would you trust his word?”

She opened her mouth, her denial evident, and then tightly pressed her lips together. Her hand shook slightly when she brushed wayward strands of hair from her face, and when she answered, her tone shared the same tremble. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

Alistair leaned forward and took her free hand. “For what it’s worth, I wish we could. As it is, if we’re lucky, it won’t get out until after the Landsmeet. After Cáel has his own legitimacy. That will mean precedent, at least.”

“I appreciate your optimism,” she said, and then gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go. “However useless it might turn out to be.”


	34. Chapter 34

“Although apprentices do not know the nature of the Harrowing, all of them understand its consequences: They either pass and become full mages, or they are never seen again. Those who fear to undertake this rite of passage, or those who are deemed weak or unstable, are given the Rite of Tranquility instead.

The actual procedure, like the Harrowing, is secret, but the results are just as well known. The rite severs connection to the Fade. The Tranquil, therefore, do not dream. This removes the greatest danger that threatens a weak or unprepared mage, the potential to attract demons across the Veil. But this is the least of Tranquility’s effects. For the absence of dreams brings with it the end of all magical ability, as well as all emotion.

The Tranquil, ironically, resemble sleepwalkers, never entirely awake nor asleep. They are still part of our Circle, however, and some might say they are the most critical part. They have incredible powers of concentration, for it is simply impossible to distract a Tranquil mage, and this makes them capable of becoming craftsmen of such skill that they rival even the adeptness of the dwarves. The Formari, the branch of the Circle devoted to item enchantment, is made up exclusively of Tranquil, and is the source of all the wealth that sustains our towers.”

—from _On Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Society_ , by First Enchanter Josephus

**Malcolm**

****Their strategy session with Alistair and Anora was quick and to the point—Malcolm would walk in just behind Alistair and Anora, and then Nuala and Líadan would come in with Cáel and Kennard when summoned. The rest, in all reality, would be left up to the Fereldan nobility that comprised the Landsmeet. And as they knew from history, anything could happen. Duels, brawls, arguments going on for days, mabari put forth for the throne—the list went on.

“Armor,” said Alistair. “Don’t forget the armor.”

Nuala raised an eyebrow. “For all of us?”

Alistair leaned back in his overstuffed chair. “Well, if you’d be more comfortable that way. Not sure if there’s armor that’ll work for a wet nurse, but I’m sure a good smith could come up with something appropriate. Probably have to get a smith for Cáel’s armor, though. Not sure I’ve seen any armor his size. It’s not a bad idea, though. This _is_ a Fereldan Landsmeet.”

“I was kidding, Your Majesty.”

His eyes twinkled as he grinned at her. “I know. And you always call me ‘Your Majesty’ when you’ve had enough of my jokes. No, armor isn’t necessary for everyone, or we’d have already had some commissioned for you and Cáel and whoever else we could think of. Might not be a bad idea in the future, though.”

Nuala let out a frustrated sigh, and then deliberately shifted her attention to Anora. “If that’s all?”

“That’s all. We’ll let you know if anything changes,” Anora said.

Nuala dipped her head in a slight bow of acknowledgement, gathered up Cáel from the floor where he’d been rolling around, and departed. Malcolm could hear Kennard’s heavy footsteps following her once the door had shut. Anora’s gaze had drifted to the lone window, apparently having fallen into deep thought. Alistair shot her a confused look before turning to Malcolm with a shrug. They both glanced over to Líadan, questions written on their faces if she had any explanation for Anora’s sudden silence, but Líadan also only had a shrug to give in return. After having paced the room for most of the meeting, she’d settled for leaning against the wall closest to the door, but when she took a second look at Anora, she moved to sit on the same sofa where Malcolm was seated. 

Malcolm gently tilted his head toward the door, silently asking if it would be okay to leave, but he’d hardly started when Líadan almost violently shook her head and frowned at him. He gave a half-roll of his eyes. Clearly, she knew more than he and Alistair did and was holding out. Or something of the like. Then again, whatever it was, was most likely very hard to explain without using actual words.

Movement came from Anora’s direction as she shifted in her chair to look at Alistair. “I have a request,” she said, the volume of her voice much softer than usual. 

Alistair eyed her warily. “What kind of request?”

“I know we’ve agreed on commending Cauthrien for her actions at Highever, but I would... I would also like to have her granted a surname.”

Understandably, the wariness didn’t leave Alistair’s eyes, though he did sit up straight from his slump. “What brought this on?”

“It is not an impulse, if that is what you believe. I have been considering it for some time, ever since she was given the teyrnir of Gwaren.” At Alistair’s confused silence—not to mention Malcolm and Líadan’s—Anora sighed. “After the Blight, when I returned to Gwaren as its new teyrna, I had to go through my father’s personal effects. His library had always been sacrosanct; no one except for him was allowed in it. Not servants, not me, not even my mother. Only him. It was... strange, to walk in. It felt like he would scold me at any second.” She gave Alistair a rueful smile. “After he never appeared, it still took me quite a while before I dared touch anything. Eventually, I did sort through what he’d left behind. He had far more maps than I’d ever suspected, and I also found letters. Letters addressed to me, letters also left for the reigning monarch, letters left for the next teyrn or teyrna if it wasn’t me, and a letter for Cauthrien. At first, I thought nothing of it. Cauthrien had been his second for a long time. Then I read the words he’d written to me, and I was caught by surprise. Though, looking back, I really should not have been.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow.

Anora narrowed her eyes at him. “Surely, you’ve put it together by now.”

“Possibly. But it could be one of two options. One of them scares me, and I’d rather not say it out loud, especially to you.”

She nodded. “All right. That’s fair.” She nodded again, more to herself. Then she said, “My father was also Cauthrien’s father. She’s my half-sister.”

The King let out a long sigh of relief.

Anora quirked an amused brow. “Did you think her my father’s lover?”

“No! Of course not!” said Alistair.

At the same time, Malcolm muttered, “I’d _hoped_ not.” Líadan elbowed him in the ribs.

When Anora’s look did not relent, Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his chair and shot a dirty look at his brother before returning to his wife. “It was a rumor! A rumor that I heard. More than once.” He studied her for a moment before asking, “Does it bother you?”

Bastards, Malcolm knew, thought about such things. They always worried that the legitimate children would detest them or hate them or view them as less than nothing, for being something that stood the chance of destroying their family. When the child couldn’t bring themselves to blame the parent, it was the bastard who often took the blame. He hoped, for both Anora’s sake, and Cauthrien’s, that Celia Mac Tir had already gone to the Maker’s side before whatever relationship had brought forth Cauthrien had even begun. 

He was also absolutely relieved to hear that Cauthrien had not been Loghain’s lover.

“Somewhat,” Anora said after she’d contemplated Alistair’s question for a moment. “It would have more if Cauthrien had been a product of an affair conducted while my mother was still alive. He explained to me in my letter that Cauthrien was not born from infidelity, that she came about after my mother had passed. So my irritation then fell upon him, that he did not acknowledge her while he was alive. If anything, it would have put a stop to the rumors that she was his lover. Rumors that did her no credit, and were unfair.” More than a hint of frustration crept into Anora’s tone; she was not lying about being upset with her father for what he hadn’t done. “She earned her place as his second. Since then, she has earned her place as teyrna of Gwaren, and has served well. She is a fine general.” Anora paused, blinking back a strong memory. “She is very much like our father. I want that recognized. She is a Mac Tir. She has earned that, as well.”

When it became clear Alistair was dumbstruck, Malcolm asked, “Does she know?”

Anora shrugged. “She does if she read the letter our father left her. If she has, and does know of her true lineage, she has not mentioned it to me.”

“Will your Landsmeet object?” asked Líadan. “I’m not sure how this legitimacy thing works with humans. The Dalish don’t really have such a concept in the first place, and humans have so many rules about it.”

“The letter of acknowledgement he left is signed and sealed by both King Maric and Grand Cleric Elemena. The Landsmeet can quarrel all they want, but they cannot override it, even with both witnesses dead. The moment the letter is submitted and made public, Cauthrien is legitimate.”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Well, then. Who am I to argue? Of course we’ll grant her the name.”

“You do not object, considering your views on my father?” Anora’s question was posed without malice, but her look on Alistair was intense.

“I’ll just keep my thoughts on the heroism he displayed during the Occupation,” Alistair replied, slowly leaning back in his chair. “I idolized him, in a way, as a child. You know, like every other child in Ferelden. The stories of the Occupation are great, you have to admit.”

Anora nodded, trading her intensity for the hint of a smile. “It would be good, to see honor restored to the name, and for it to be carried on.”

“You don’t believe you can do so?” asked Alistair.

“Alistair, considering I’ve married a Theirin twice over, despite being my father’s daughter, I am a Theirin. Were I to bear your child, he or she would also be a Theirin, not a Mac Tir. Someone else will have to carry my father’s line.”

“It’s a good thing that whoever’s family carries the higher rank in the nobility is the name that’s passed onto the children,” Alistair said with a nod. “If that weren’t true, Maric wouldn’t have been a Theirin, considering he got his name from Moira. I’m not even sure who his father was.”

Anora frowned. “It was honestly never spoken of. Some minor bann, I assume. Properly Fereldan, of course.”

“Of course.” Alistair became solemn, even has he glanced briefly in his brother’s direction. “Married, as well, to the Queen, before he died.”

“Hey!” said Malcolm. “That was low.”

“I was kidding.”

Líadan crossed her arms and gave Alistair a pointed look. “Were you?”

Alistair squirmed, looking anywhere but at Líadan. “Mostly.”

She sighed and stood. “We’re done, I assume?”

“Yes.” Anora’s expression was one of silent apology when she looked at Líadan, obviously frustrated with her husband’s inadvertent boorishness. 

“Then I’ve other things to attend to. Excuse me.” Líadan left, after a parting glare sent Alistair’s way.

Malcolm wanted to stand up and announce that no, their child was _not_ going to be illegitimate because he was married to the child’s mother, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t tell them and it was killing him the longer the secret went on. But there was nothing he could do, not with the Chantry watching them for the smallest slip-up. As long as the Chantry kept such a close eye on them, Alistair couldn’t know. Which, of course, would mean more uncomfortable situations like this one in the future. 

“You really need to think about what you say,” Anora said to Alistair.

Alistair held his head in his hands. “I know. I’ll apologize later by offering to spar with her. She’ll beat the snot out of me with her tricky hunter ways, I’ll tell her I’m sorry, and we’ll be fine. That’s how it usually goes. I just wish I could fix the whole situation by waving my hand or something. I mean, I’m the King, and my hands are tied.”

“I remember Maric saying something about being king meant having far less power than anyone could ever think.”

“He’d have the right of it.”

Malcolm stood, not really angry with his brother, only frustrated with the situation and the things he couldn’t change. “I’ll do my best to get her to go easy on you. Wouldn’t do for you to have bruises in the Landsmeet.”

By the end of the day, Líadan was fine, having had a long chat with Alistair that didn’t even involve weapons of any sort. Somehow, she managed to convince him to leave the issue of Malcolm not being bonded to her—to Alistair’s knowledge—alone. When they went to bed, she claimed to be less troubled by the entire matter, but from the look in her eyes, Malcolm wasn’t convinced. Maybe she had convinced herself that she was fine, but he wasn’t buying it. However, he recognized that it wasn’t the right time to confront the lingering fear. It probably wouldn’t be the right time until they could do something about it, which could be a years-long wait.

****_The flames surrounded him, chased him, jumping from every corner, through every doorway, and he flung himself out a window to escape. He tumbled down from the first-floor window, rolling in the grass before he leapt to his feet. Around him, everything still burned. He made it outside the city walls to see Denerim burning behind him. Then he was in the air, flying like a raven, and he saw flames burning huge swathes of the country, scorching the Bannorn, turning the arlings and freeholds into cinders. Then he was indoors—underground?—again, and he could hear shouting, calls for him, to be rescued, scooped out of the fire. He flung open every door, blinded by the acrid smoke that scraped at his eyes and tore at his throat with every breath. But the voices calling to him, they compelled him like no others could. He was meant to protect them and he had to find them because they needed him and—_

Malcolm woke up. He was surprised to find himself breathing normally, and not hot, or sweaty, or most importantly, on fire. He was even a little chilled by the drafts coming from around the window. Líadan slept next to him, not moving when he sat up, her light snores continuing even as he left the bed. With her needing her rest, he didn’t dare wake her up to tell her he’d had a bad dream and needed to distract himself from it. Certainly not when they were both Grey Wardens and had nightmares regularly. 

Then again, he’d almost choose the darkspawn variety over the one he’d just had. 

His stomach growled, presenting him with an excuse, as well as a solution. Off to the pantry it was. He fended off Gunnar and Revas, telling the dogs to stay in the room, and when they didn’t seem to listen, bribing them with the offer of food. That worked, and he stole out of the room before either of the mabari changed their minds about which of their masters to guard.

None of the household staff were up yet, to his surprise. He knew they got up earlier than even the palace staff in order to have enough food around for the Wardens, so he figured he wasn’t awake as early as he’d assumed. The cloudy night meant he couldn’t judge from the position of the moon. Without staff present to scold him, he easily liberated a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. Prizes in hand, he headed back for his room. At least if he woke Líadan up this time, he’d have food to placate her with.

On the way down the corridor, the peculiar light of a spell wisp—Wynne had used them quite frequently during the Blight to light her tent at night when she read—coming from the open door of the library caught his attention. Wondering if Wynne had been stricken with a bout of insomnia and had chosen to do some research as she waited it out, he took a detour to see. Maybe she could make some sense of the dream he’d had. Or, at the very least, make him feel better, though being a grown man, he’d never admit that part out loud.

Instead of Wynne, he found Bethany seated in one of the armchairs. The spell wisp he had seen illuminated a letter she held in her hand.

Malcolm leaned against the doorframe, bread in one hand and cheese in the other. “You have nightmares or something?” It stood to reason she might’ve, given she was a new Warden. Eventually, he knew, she’d be rid of them until her Calling, since she hadn’t Joined during a Blight. He and Líadan, however, still had them at least once weekly, thanks to the strength of Blight Joinings. 

She looked up at him, a little startled, but not scared. Her eyes were narrowed, as if she were upset, but it was a faraway look. However, it was still the angry kind of upset. The angry kind of mage upset that led to painful spells like lightning or fire. “My brother wrote me a letter,” she said after a moment, her tone dangerously mild.

“And this makes you angry, why?” he asked, stepping inside the room. He could still make conversation safely. Grey Wardens could almost always be fended off with the offer of food, and he had bread and cheese to spare. “Is he a poor speller and you can’t abhor bad spelling?”

Bethany glared at him after a slight roll of her eyes. “My twin brother became a templar after we all went in the Deep Roads with our sister. His letter is one nicely telling me that he’s been promoted from recruit to Knight-Templar.” She flung the letter onto a low table, where it fluttered to rest next to a stack of books. “That jackass.”

“Brothers are usually jackasses. It’s their job.” 

“Even your brother?”

He dropped into a nearby chair and shot her a grin. “Especially my brother.”

She bit her lip as she mulled over the answer. Then she asked, “Which one?”

“Both.”

“I bet they say the same about you.”

He nodded. “I’d expect nothing less.” It was, after all, the brotherly thing to do.

Bethany seemed to take this in, her fingers tugging at her shirtsleeve. Then she asked, “And what about sisters?”

“Not sure.” He shrugged. “Never had one.”

“You should be grateful. My sister is the reason I’m here.”

Malcolm had no idea what to say to that, so he took a huge bite of the bread to keep from having to come up with something that’d likely get him into trouble. Trouble with mages was bad. He knew that much from painful experience. When she still hadn’t spoken or even mercifully changed the subject by the time he was done with his bite, he sighed and offered her the other half of the loaf he’d taken. “Want some?”

Her answer was a half-hearted shake of her head.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a recently-made Grey Warden, aren’t you? Yes, you are. I remember that much. Well, I also remember that when you’re that new of a Warden, you’re even hungrier. So unless you fetched food from the larder before I did, you could use a snack.” She sighed and accepted the bread, but said nothing more. _Maker_. It was screamingly clear she needed to talk about whatever bothered her regarding her becoming a Warden, and he would make a very convenient person for her to speak with if he decided to prompt it out of her. Judging by her expression, it wouldn’t take much. But doing so would practically guarantee more awkward. Then again, it would delay his return to bed, which meant less a chance of waking up Líadan. Her getting more sleep, in the grand scheme of things, was good—or so Wynne had informed him several times, most within earshot of Líadan. 

There had been glares. Possibly growling, but he hadn’t been too sure, and hadn’t cared to really speculate on it much. 

He sighed and settled back into the chair. “All right, out with it.”

Bethany gave him a faint frown as her brows drew together. “Out with what?”

A chunk of cheese grasped between his fingers, he waved his hand around. “What’s bothering you. You seem to need to talk about it, and I haven’t got all night. Eventually, I have to wander back into bed and manage not to disturb Líadan, lest I suffer Wynne’s wrath. Wrath, need I remind you, that could kill a man when it comes to the health of her patients. And—” 

“So it’s true, then?” Bethany straightened from her slump and looked almost eager. Quite a change from earlier. 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, not sure this was necessarily a good development. “What’s true? There’s a lot that’s true. Yes, Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Yes, the King really does have an unhealthy love affair with cheese. Yes, the Queen knows of the affair and is only slightly disturbed by it. Yes, griffons really are extinct—which is _very_ sad, mind you—and...” He gave up when he realized the bright curiosity in her eyes had yet to dim even a fraction. “All right, I’ll bite. What’s it you’ve realized is true?”

“She’s with child?”

“Wynne?” His eyes widened. “That’d be quite the miracle, from what I’m told, given Wynne’s age. Well, maybe not if she snagged some of Andraste’s ashes when no one was looking, but she usually isn’t that sneaky.”

Bethany gave him a withering look. “Líadan.”

“Ah. Well, you’re a healer. You tell me.”

“Wouldn’t you know?”

“I’m not a healer. That’d be you.”

“She’d tell you.”

“And if she hadn’t? You totally just ruined her surprise. Shame on you.”

Bethany clapped her hands together in glee, and a tiny squeal escaped her mouth before she quieted herself. “This is exciting!”

Malcolm barely kept from rolling his eyes. Funny how most others on the outside of the situation found their predicament to be awesome or exciting or fun and not the snarl of complications he and Líadan knew it to be. He shifted in his chair. “Yes, well. Maybe being a Warden won’t be so bad for you now? If Warden babies can improve the moods of Weisshaupt Wardens, surely it’d help your outlook on your new career.”

With how quickly Bethany’s expression darkened, it was like he’d slammed shut a sunlit window. “I won’t be there to deliver them if my sister ever has children. When I found my talent as a healer, I’d assumed I’d be the one to... but that can’t happen. Not anymore.”

He glanced longingly at his cheese, really wanting to finish the last few bites, yet knowing it would be rude of him to. Instead, he asked, “Were you conscripted or something? Usually, Wardens who are all bitter about being one were dragged into the order, kicking and screaming, sometimes literally. Or most times literally.” He frowned. “Though I’m not sure what your sister would have to do with it, unless she’s a Warden, too. But I assume I’d know that by now.”

“She isn’t a Warden, but it was partly her idea to go into the Deep Roads.”

“She...” He stared at Bethany, wondering if he’d misheard. “She went into the Deep Roads on purpose?”

“Asking that when I mention my sister’s idea seems to be a theme with Grey Wardens, I’ve noticed.”

“You’ve been to the Deep Roads. Is it really that shocking we’d have that reaction?”

“Didn’t say I disagreed. I was just making an observation.”

“That’s nice. Can we get back to the part where your non-Warden sister thought that going into the Deep Roads _on purpose_ was a good idea? Whatever would make her think that the Deep Roads led to good things?”

“A dwarf. A few dwarves. Treasure. The chance to get ahead where there were no other ways out to be seen. We were lucky enough to escape the Blight as it was.” Bethany crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, a frown once again marring her usually innocent expression. 

“So, after the relative safety of Kirkwall, you and your sister chose to go where you’d find... more darkspawn?”

“Clearly, you’ve never been to Kirkwall.” However humorously Bethany had said the comment, there was enough residual pain in her eyes from her time there that it really _could_ have been bad enough to seem a better option than remaining in the city. 

He hoped he never had occasion to visit Kirkwall, then, and was grateful he’d avoided it on Anders’ advice. “Since you’ve heard from your brother, I take that to mean your sister and your friends also survived after you left them?”

“Survived, yes.” Bethany picked up the letter again and checked it. “In addition to his news about his promotion, he told me I wouldn’t believe a word about what happened after I had to leave with Anders and the Wardens. So, he informed me, he would not tell me at all, not any of it, and that Marian should be writing me with the whole story so I’d believe it.” She scowled and tossed the letter on the low table in front of her. “Like I’d assume my twin was lying to me. I think he just wanted to avoid writing out the entire thing, the lazy git. It’s Marian who might not tell me the whole truth, given she’s going to have a guilt complex about my becoming a Grey Warden. She won’t want me to feel bad for not being there. But she can’t keep me from feeling something I already do.” Her glare settled on the offensive letter, serving as proxy for the Deep Roads, Bethany’s sister, or circumstance. Malcolm wasn’t sure which, and for Bethany, it could’ve been all three, given her situation. “I should been able to avoid being tainted. Everyone else did. Why couldn’t I?” Her gaze shifted to Malcolm, imploring. Begging for an answer he couldn’t give.

“It could be it wasn’t meant to be prevented. Maker’s will and such.” He shrugged, thinking of the similarities between Bethany’s becoming a Warden and Líadan’s misadventure with a tainted mirror. “I don’t know. You should talk to my—you should talk to Líadan.” Definitely far to late for him to be up and awake if he almost slipped about his bonding. He clapped his hands on his thighs before standing up, a signal that the conversation had to come to a close. “Maybe tomorrow? She likes you, so she’d probably be okay talking about it. Or at least open to the possibility. That’s if I don’t wake her up when I go back to bed, which I should be doing right about now.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, eyes back on the letter as she kept to her seat.

As Malcolm reached the doorway, he caught sight of Thierry walking past it, half a loaf of bread in hand, and heading for the barracks. 

Bethany had apparently noticed it as well. She stood, her frustration with her sister and the Wardens and pretty much everything that’d happened to her before finding a target in the former templar. “Why are you lurking outside the door?”

Thierry stopped and slowly turned around, eyes tired and resigned. “Tell me she isn’t talking to me. I just want to eat my bread and go back to sleep.”

“Templar, I don’t require supervision.”

Malcolm met Thierry’s gaze. “It’s you.” He kept to himself his relief that it wasn’t him she was angry with, _and_ that Thierry’s appearance had saved him from a really uncomfortable end to his conversation with Bethany.

Thierry sighed and trudged to the door where Malcolm stood, who then stepped aside to allow the former templar to walk fully into the library, where Bethany waited. 

“Well?” she asked. “What were—”

For the first time since Malcolm had known him, Thierry lost his patience. His fingers broke through the crust of his bread as his hands tightened, the empty hand going so far as to form a fist. “I live here, too, you know!” he shouted at Bethany. “I’m a Warden, just as you are! I just have a different skill set, one that you happen to hate. I’m not following you or watching you or keeping track of you or guarding you or anything!”

“Then why are you up at this hour?” The accusation remained strong in Bethany’s tone, and her hands had moved to rest on her hips.

Thierry held up his ruined bread. “I was hungry!” Then he paused before turning the conversation back on her. “Why are you?”

“Nightmares,” said Malcolm, choosing to jump in before either of them could truly lose their tempers, “which I was going to appease with snacks.” He pointed at Bethany. “ _She_ was brooding.”

“It’s called insomnia,” said Bethany.

Malcolm squinted, as if thinking very hard. “Pretty sure those are spelled differently. And are also different things entirely.”

She still frowned, but some of the tension in her body visibly eased, her arms relaxing and hands dropping from where they’d perched on her hips. “Insomnia led to brooding.”

“Ah, okay. Happens to the best of us.” He smiled at her, hoping to continue to ease the tension with humor, because a shouting match—and possibly magical attacks and holy smites—in the middle of the night would mean everyone would be up. “You should’ve met Nathaniel. He was a champion brooder. Seriously the best.”

“And I,” came Líadan’s voice from the doorway, partly blocked by Thierry, “woke up because someone was missing from the bed. Oh, and there was shouting.”

Malcolm didn’t think Líadan sounded too perturbed, but he was fine with not being able to see her face right then to confirm, just in case. He remained where he stood, with Thierry’s bulk breaking their line of sight. “I was going to bring you snacks, too,” he said to her. “But they got eaten. Also, Thierry’s feeling left out of the Warden bonding deal. You should be nicer to him. He might cry.”

Then there was a door slam, and lumbering footsteps before Oghren could be heard asking, “Is it a sodding party out here?”

“It was,” said Líadan. “Then you showed up, dwarf.”

Thierry looked despondently at the remnant of bread in his hand, and then dragged his despondent look toward the hallway. Then he sighed and dropped into an empty chair, eyes still on his bread. Malcolm glanced at the last chunk of bread in his hand, decided he’d be fine with the cheese, and tossed the bread in Thierry’s direction. He caught it easily, nodded a thank you, and tore into it.

Ah, new Wardens.

Malcolm gave him the cheese, too. He remembered that particular hunger.

With Thierry having moved out of the way, Líadan and Oghren moved into the library. Oghren made a show of searching the room before turning to Líadan. “You lie, elf. There’s no ale. No ale, no party.”

Líadan lifted her chin as she looked down her nose at him. “The Dalish don’t need ale for their parties.”

“Merrill did say they required wine, though,” Bethany said quietly. “Or was that for frolicking?”

Malcolm’s head snapped up to get confirmation from Líadan. “Frolicking? How did I not know about frolicking?”

“We don’t frolic!” Líadan then frowned, seeming disappointed. “I didn’t frolic.” She turned to Bethany. “Merrill told you she frolicked?”

“Well, not me directly. She said it to Varric.” Then it was Bethany’s turn to frown. “Oh, I suppose she could’ve been having him on. It was always so hard to _tell_ with her. She’d look at you with her huge, innocent eyes and say things that were at once scandalizing and yet naïve and entirely confusing if you thought about them for too long.”

Líadan nodded, as if she knew exactly what Bethany was referring to. “Oh, she was having you on, if you thought her naïve. Her humor can be subtle, though, so I can see how it would appear otherwise.”

Unimportant, at the moment, Malcolm decided. They had deviated from far more important matters. “Frolicking!”

“Aye,” said Oghren. “I’d like to hear more about that and none of this sodding mage-templar business. You’re both Wardens. So unless one of you mage-types gets all twisted and turned and mutates into an actual sodding abomination, no former templars should give a nug’s arse what you do.” Oghren gave a significant look to Bethany, and then followed up with the same look in Thierry’s direction. “Right? Right. You look like you need a drink, Orlesian. You ever had dwarven ale? It’ll put hair on your arse. Everyone needs a bit of hair on their arse.”

“ _Maker_ ,” said Thierry. 

Oghren chuckled as he fetched his flask from his beard. Then he extended it to Thierry. “Come on. You’ll need a head start. I’ll get you back to the barracks, and we can pretend the twitchy mages aren’t so twitchy.”

After giving the flask a dubious look, Thierry accepted it before standing up and following Oghren out of the room.

Malcolm had to admit he was impressed at how his friend had handled that situation. Right to the point, yes, and falling back on alcohol, yes, but he’d finished defusing everything, and had even managed to get former templar and touchy mage into different rooms. If Oghren didn’t get into his cups so much, he would’ve been a fine commander either for the Denerim compound or even the Fereldan Wardens in Hildur’s place. But Malcolm still couldn’t bring himself to blame Oghren for the drinking. One, it helped his berserking. Two, the man had to help kill his own wife. A lifetime of drinking probably couldn’t wipe away the memories and anguish of _that_. Malcolm had no idea how he’d react if he lost Líadan. And he couldn’t even imagine what he’d do if he were forced to end her life. 

“I’m going back to bed,” said Líadan. She paused at the door and gave Malcolm an expectant look. “Are you coming with me?”

He started to nod, and then his stomach growled. With all his food sharing, he hadn’t gotten enough to eat. “After another trip to the pantry, I’ll be up.”

She smiled at him, and he felt the familiar warmth spread in his chest that he was lucky enough to have her as his wife—and desperately hoped that nothing would take her away like had happened with Oghren’s wife. “Make sure you bring enough to share,” she said, and then left, her steps silent on the stone floor.

The morning of the Landsmeet found Malcolm bleary-eyed and stumbling from an empty bed. By he time he managed to get himself down to the dining hall, the only Wardens left were Líadan and Bethany. Malcolm was hungry, but the two of them seemed to be having an intense conversation, and he wasn’t sure if it was one to be interrupted. Once he heard the topic, he was certain it shouldn’t be interrupted. They were talking about how they’d become Grey Wardens, and both of their stories had a painful similarity: Grey Warden or death.

“I didn’t choose, not exactly,” said Bethany. “Well, my choice was either dying or being made a Warden. Not much of a choice, really.”

“More than I had.” Líadan’s statement was said mildly, and she didn’t even look up from stirring the Dalish tea Ariane and Panowen had gifted her with before they left.

Bethany’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “I’d heard your circumstances were the same as mine. You were tainted before the Joining, and you had to become a Warden to save your life?”

Líadan stopped stirring her tea, but elected to trace the rim of the mug with her finger instead of taking a sip of the steaming liquid. It was something Malcolm had watched her do when in deep thought. “I was tainted, yes, but I wasn’t given the option of dying. I was kept alive, and then I was forced to join, very much against my will. Kicking and screaming, I was told. I did both. Made no difference. The choice for me to live wasn’t my choice to make.” She gave the other woman a rueful smile. “Took me a while to be grateful.”

“My sister really wasn’t going to let me die. She would have—no, she wouldn’t. Wasn’t a real choice, I don’t think. She wouldn’t have been the one... I don’t...” Bethany trailed off, the darkness of her expression hard to read, as if she hovered somewhere between angry outrage and disbelief, and then there was a hint of another emotion Malcolm had trouble identifying. Before he could figure it out, Bethany was on her feet, muttering some sort of excuse, and stalking out of the room through the door opposite the one he stood in.

Líadan looked straight at him as soon as Bethany had gone, telling him she’d known he was there the whole time. He gave her a lopsided grin, and then sat down next to Bethany’s abandoned chair, across from Líadan. After casting a glance where Bethany had disappeared, he said, “I have the feeling she really doesn’t like her sister.”

She stopped her mug halfway to her mouth to tell him, “She loves her sister. You need to pay more attention.”

He started gathering food as fast as he could to keep from gaping at her, but knew he was doing so anyway. “It’s times like this when I’m glad I never had a sister. I have no idea how that even makes a lick of sense. The things she says about her, how she goes on about her being the reason they were in the Deep Roads and why she had to become a Warden... I just don’t understand how that could be construed as love.”

“The reason why it makes her so angry, and why she’s so conflicted, is _because_ she loves her sister.” 

“If you say so.” If he kept thinking about it, he was certain he’d go cross-eyed. Better to agree and move on rather than risk the consequences. He focused on eating as quickly as he could, instead.

“She’s right,” Nuala said from the doorway. “And just to remind you, the King and Queen did request you meet them in the King’s study a half hour prior to the Landsmeet. You’ve five minutes to go before you’re officially late.”

Malcolm stood, resisting the urge to stuff extra bread in a pouch. He’d opted to wear his dwarven armor this morning instead of his Warden armor, because that was the armor he’d worn through the Blight and the civil war. It would serve to remind the Landsmeet of everything he’d done. At least, that’s what Anora had advised him, and he hadn’t disagreed. It also gave him an excellent excuse to wear armor to the Landsmeet. Alistair had also lent him Maric’s sword to wear instead of Duncan’s, as another reminder, that one for Malcolm being from the line of Calenhad, and that any issue from him would be of the same lineage. 

Líadan was on her feet right after him, wearing her Warden leathers, but her stave left behind in their room. No need to remind the Landsmeet that she was a mage, not when she’d be first walking with Nuala and Cáel, and then representing the Grey Wardens in the actual Landsmeet proceedings. She did, however, carry her daggers. One also did not walk unarmed into the Landsmeet in Ferelden. 

Armed, armored, and walking beside a mabari through the mud, that was the Fereldan way.


	35. Chapter 35

“Even after the Blight, Tevinter commanded an army larger than that of any other organized nation in Thedas, but that army was scattered and its morale dwindling. The ruin of Tevinter was such that the Alamarri barbarians, who had spread their clans and holds over the wilderness of the Ferelden Valley at the far southeast edge of the Imperium, saw weakness in their enemy, and, after an age of oppression, embarked on a campaign not only to free their own lands, but to bring down mighty Tevinter as well.

The leaders of that blessed campaign were the great barbarian warlord, Maferath, and his wife, Andraste. Their dreams and ambitions would change the world forever.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

****Though they’d gone over the finer details earlier, and therefore the meeting that morning mostly a formality, it didn’t stop Anora from being annoyed at Malcolm and Líadan’s tardiness, with no blame being placed on Nuala or Cáel. As soon as the study’s door shut behind them, Anora launched into a rant that had nothing to do with them and much to do with the Divine. From what Malcolm could gather, the Divine had complained that she was being made to wait to give her apology until after various internal Fereldan matters had been taken care of in the Landsmeet first. Alistair and Anora had made the decision for the Divine to wait until the end because they knew their Bannorn. The gathered nobles would want to address the matter of a possible new royal heir first, not last. Servants and spies had heard enough in the taverns and markets of Denerim to know the subject most on the populace’s minds. Not that the Divine’s appearance and her pending apology wasn’t a close second, but Fereldans thought about Ferelden first, and any Orlesians a distant second, and second only if said person was the Divine.

“She’s lucky we’re letting her into the Landsmeet at all,” Anora said, ending her tirade with a resolute nod.

“Damn right,” said Alistair.

Anora glared at him.

The King composed his expression into one of perfect innocence. “What? I thought you’d like some support, so I agreed. Was I wrong?”

“No, you weren’t.” Anora sighed instead of explaining herself, rubbed at her forehead, and then glanced toward the door. “Where’s Captain Somerled? It’s time to begin.”

 ****When the Alistair, Anora, and Malcolm entered the large chamber of the Landsmeet, shouts to see the new Theirin went up immediately. Most, Malcolm noticed, referred to Cáel as ‘child’ or ‘boy,’ and only a few labeled Cáel a bastard out loud. He took that as a good sign. Were the Landsmeet not predisposed to legitimizing Cáel, there’d be a lot more yelling about a bastard—and probably a lot of yelling at him for producing one. Alistair tried to hush the gathered nobles so that he could officially begin the Landsmeet, as he had technically been the one to call it earlier in the season than usual, but the shouting only got louder. They’d judged more than correctly, that much was certain. Despite the Divine’s objections, tending to the matter of an heir was indeed more pressing to Ferelden’s nobility than even the leader of the Chantry.

After a third attempt at getting the crowd to be quiet, Alistair shouted, “You’ll never see him at all if you don’t shut it!”

The nobles fell silent and stared at the King.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Malcolm thought he heard Bann Teagan say from his place on the Landsmeet floor. 

Alistair smiled at the bann. “Hey, it worked. Don’t knock it.” Then he finished his walk over to the throne, Anora beside him, and stood in front of it before he formally addressed the crowd. “My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, your patience gives you much merit as we convene an early autumn Landsmeet here today.” There were a few snickers at Alistair’s crack at their ill manners, and Alistair waited for them to subside before continuing. “I gather from your initial reactions that you would rather address the issue of my nephew first before we hear out the Divine?”

Several banns called out their assent. 

Alistair nodded, and then motioned to Captain Somerled, who’d waited at the main doors. As Somerled ducked out to fetch Nuala, Líadan, and Cáel from the anteroom, Malcolm willed himself not to give into the impulse to shuffle his feet nervously. He could already feel the Landsmeet’s eyes on him, and before now, he hadn’t given as much thought to how judged he’d feel when the nobility learned of his illegitimate son. As a bastard himself, legitimized or no, he knew how important it was for a noble to refrain from producing bastards. He’d spoken with Morrigan about it more than once, and she had assured him she had no wish to have an unplanned child. It had certainly been truth on her part. When it came to her future, Morrigan disliked leaving anything to chance if it could be prevented. Of course, the ritual and its necessities had thrown both their plans awry, and one of the products of failed plans was now being carried inside the Landsmeet chamber, held in Nuala’s arms. Líadan walked at Nuala’s right side, and Kennard kept to Nuala’s left, both of them with wary eyes on the crowd. 

Nuala gave Alistair a questioning look, and he motioned her forward. Once she was close enough, he directed her to hand a sleeping Cáel to Malcolm. Then Alistair said quietly to his brother, “All right, your show.”

Malcolm frowned. He hadn’t planned— _none_ of them had planned—on Cáel being and remaining asleep through any of this. “He’s asleep,” he whispered to Alistair.

“Well, poke him or something,” Alistair whispered back. “We need him awake.”

Instead of following his brother’s advice, Malcolm brushed his fingers lightly through the thick, light reddish hair on his son’s head. It was enough of a departure from being cuddled that the boy woke up, his eyes blinking rapidly at realizing that he wasn’t in a familiar place, not entirely. While he was familiar enough now with his father’s arms, the Landsmeet chamber was an entirely new experience. Even for a grown man, it could be rather intimidating, and Malcolm couldn’t imagine it being anything less than overwhelming for a babe. Cáel let out a quick cry of protest, and then was distracted by the murmurs from the crowd in front and around them. He quieted and stared at the many, many faces as Malcolm turned him around for the Landsmeet to see. “This is Cáel,” he said, projecting his voice enough so that all gathered could hear him. “He’s my son. I bring him before you today to ask the Landsmeet to consider granting him legitimacy.”

The murmurs became louder. “He’s a Theirin, that much is certain,” said Arl Bryland. “I’d stake my firstborn on it.”

“I’d feel better if you’d stake your secondborn on it,” said Arl Wulff. “Sad to say, Leonas, but it’s your younger daughter who inherited all the sense in your family.” He chuckled through a mutter from Bryland before he went on. “But, I see your point. The boy’s a Theirin, without a doubt.”

“Is his mother the witch or the elf?” asked Bann Vaughan, whose eyes skipped right over Cáel and straight to Líadan, who stood near the dais with Nuala and Kennard.

“You mean Warden Líadan?” asked Bann Alfstanna, her point about respect for Líadan’s title clear, and then punctuated with a scowl in Vaughan’s direction. “I highly doubt it. She wintered in Denerim and has been in the city in the past year. We would well know if she’d had a child.”

Vaughan seemed somehow disappointed, if Malcolm hadn’t known better. Then the bann asked, “So the boy’s mother is the witch, then?”

“The one the Chantry was after?” asked Bann Franderel. “The maleficar?”

Malcolm’s attention snapped from Vaughan to Franderel, along with a heavy glare. “Morrigan was no blood mage.”

“Was?” came the question from Bann Shianni, standing near Bann Alfstanna. “Morrigan was alive, last I heard. Has this changed?”

Anora cleared her throat. “Morrigan was lost during the Battle of Highever.”

Malcolm supposed that was _technically_ true. It was close enough to the truth, if a bit misleading, that he didn’t feel too terribly bad about the Landsmeet believing what they would from Anora’s words. It wasn’t like they could tell the plain truth in the first place. The Landsmeet wouldn’t understand, and there were truths involved in telling the truth that the Landsmeet couldn’t know without revealing Grey Warden secrets. 

“She fought for us?” asked a bann Malcolm couldn’t see, from somewhere in the upper gallery.

“She was one of our own,” said Fergus, “even if a mage.”

“And she did help the Princes through the Blight,” said Teagan.

“Only to abandon them at the end,” Eamon said, more to his brother than to the rest of the Landsmeet, bringing to memory arguments they’d had at the end of the Blight.

Teagan crossed his arms as he faced off with his elder brother. “If you knew Isolde was with child, could you ask her to do no less?”

After a moment of thought, Eamon gave Teagan a grudging nod. “I suppose not.” Then he huffed. “But why didn’t she inform Malcolm sooner?”

“Maybe because he was angry that she’d left?” Teagan had yet to let go of his defensive pose, his frustration with his brother evident. Usually, the two Guerrins presented more of a united front at Landsmeets, but they’d apparently not been on the same page when they’d entered the chamber that morning. “Or perhaps it was because there was another woman by the time the babe was born? Or perhaps she even had her own reasons we’ll never know because she’s gone. Let us not speak ill of the dead, brother. What’s done is done, and now we have to decide what we will do.”

“She did not have to bear the child if she hadn’t chosen to do so,” Teyrna Cauthrien said before Eamon could reply to Teagan. “Nor did she even have to tell Prince Malcolm at all. And yet she did. Maybe the Chantry went after her in an attempt to gain control of the babe, and thereby gain some control of our monarchy.”

“So she protected him,” said Eamon, sounding as though he didn’t quite believe what he was saying. Yet the murmurs through the crowd indicated the others believed it, some wondering out loud why they hadn’t seen it before.

Cauthrien nodded. “She protected Ferelden. She is one of the Heroes of the Blight, whether we like it or not.”

“And because she is dead, Prince Malcolm cannot marry her in order to retroactively legitimize their child,” said Delilah Howe, created Bann of Amaranthine only in the last winter Landsmeet.

“Which is why we are here,” Anora said, giving Delilah a grateful look for bringing matters back to their original topic. “The Landsmeet would do well to remember that the throne is without an heir for a generation beyond our own. Legitimizing Cáel would add security to the line of succession—security we have been without for several years.”

“I’d be fine legitimizing the boy,” Bann Sighard said slowly, “but I’m not sure about immediately putting him in the line of succession.”

“I suppose you have a reason for that, Sighard?” asked Fergus.

“Given that his mother happened to be an apostate mage with magic so strong it was rumored she was a Witch of the Wilds, I’m hesitant that the boy be put in the line before we’re sure he won’t be a mage himself. That’s all. Worried about magic in the royal line.” Sighard cringed a little at the fierceness in Fergus’ unrelenting gaze, but did not take back what he’d said. Malcolm withheld a sigh. It wasn’t like they hadn’t expected this very objection to come up, not once the Landsmeet found out it was Morrigan who’d given birth to Cáel. 

“Would we do the same to Eamon’s new child because his firstborn was a mage?” asked Arl Bryland. 

“Of course not,” Cauthrien answered with a scoff. “It isn’t the way things are done.”

Wulff nodded in agreement, catching on with Bryland and Cauthrien’s reasoning. “Then we shouldn’t do so with our royal family, either. It smacks too much of Orlesian control.”

A wave of murmured assent swept through the crowd. Then Bann Loren called out, “ _Chantry_ control.”

“After their rather _un-_ exalted march on us recently,” said Wulff, “they are one in the same entity for me.”

Shouts of agreement followed Wulff’s statement, along with a few chuckles. 

Once the laughs and shouts died down, Eamon cleared his throat in the silence. “We need a clear heir. After our civil war during a blight, it’s also clear we need as many legitimate Theirins as we can find, even if we have to legitimize them ourselves.”

“While I don’t disagree with your point, Eamon,” said Bann Sighard, “I do think it’s becoming a bit of a trend. How many bastards will the Landsmeet be legitimizing? Will we start to assume that our royals and nobles need not marry? That they need not produce legitimate issue when they can simply keep whatever company they wish and instead ask for a legitimization later? It sets a poor precedent, I believe.” Protests started rising from half the gathered nobility, and Sighard raised his hands to quiet them. “I’m not disagreeing with granting the boy legitimacy! I’m just saying that we also need to pay attention to what precedents we’re setting. I understand that these are different and trying times, that we’ve just come through a blight and a civil war, and that the Theirin line still hadn’t recovered from nearly being wiped out in the Occupation. I get it. I understand. But we have to be careful here, too. That’s all.”

Eamon considered Sighard for a moment, and then grasped the rail in front of him with both hands, leaning his weight on it. “A compromise, then,” he said, glancing quickly over at the dais where the King and Queen stood and listened, and then looking down and out over the rest of the Landsmeet. “We make this boy legitimate, and then require the next few generations to be born legitimate if they are to inherit or even be recognized as having the blood of Calenhad. The rule would only be broken if we are left with no other choice—such as, Maker forbid, every legitimate Theirin is killed.” 

At the thought, Malcolm’s arms unconsciously tightened around Cáel, as if he could protect him from a hypothetical death. Even contemplating it scared him to a depth he hadn’t thought possible. Before he’d had Cáel, he’d thought he’d understood what it would mean to think about losing a child, and afterward, he’d realized he hadn’t even scratched the surface of the lurking fear. Even now, he still couldn’t imagine just what his brother must have felt—what Fergus must still feel—about losing Oren. For what Eamon spoke of to come true, it would be like the Fall of Highever again, only with dead Theirins instead of Couslands.

“Like before?” asked Sighard.

Eamon stared at Sighard for a moment, and impressively did not roll his eyes in exasperation. “The goal is to begin with more than we started with last time. If we legitimize this child, I believe we will have met that goal.”

Sighard inclined his head and gave Eamon a rueful grin. “I can agree to that.”

Before Alistair could put the matter to official vote, the nobles of the Landsmeet began shouting their opinions. To Malcolm’s great relief, the majority of the shouts were variations of “Aye!” and the like. Some tension visibly left Alistair’s body, and he worked harder to get the Landsmeet to quiet down. Once they finally allowed the King to speak, Alistair asked, “So, that was just a warm up, I presume? Are we that out of practice when it comes to civilized Landsmeets?” Then he waved off their replies lest they get worked up again and back to shouting. “All right, before you lot change your minds, let’s have a vote. Malcolm Theirin has presented to you the infant Cáel, whom he as acknowledged to be a son of his blood. He has asked the Landsmeet to grant Cáel legitimacy, and therefore, a place in the line of succession. Were this measure to pass, Cáel would become the first heir of the generation after mine, and heir presumptive until such time as Anora and I have our own child. Now, how say you?”

The replies remained the same, and were shouted with the same enthusiasm as before. There were a couple banns who gave no opinion, and one who loudly denounced the legitimization. Malcolm was entirely not shocked to find the owner of the dissenting opinion to be Bann Ceorlic. He resisted shaking his head, but still whispered to Alistair, “Oh, look, Ceorlic disagrees. Big surprise.”

Alistair glanced over to where Ceorlic had started arguing with Bann Alfstanna. “I thought with had him killed.”

“We did. That’s the son.”

“We need to have him killed, too?”

Malcolm lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “He might have valid reason to hate us, you know. Our father did kill his grandfather.”

“Only because his grandfather killed our grandmother.”

“We also put his father to death.”

“He was caught conspiring to commit treason,” Anora whispered to the two of them. “And his treason would have put Malcolm in danger, which is also treason.”

Alistair gave his wife a conceding nod. “Point.”

Anora returned the nod. “However, if you wish the son and current bann killed, I am sure Baltasar can arrange it.”

“No, not yet.” Alistair studied Bann Ceorlic the younger once more. “He’s just disagreed. That’s allowed. We aren’t despots, so no treason thus far. But if a member of that family conspires or commits treason again, we’ll have them attainted, and their bannorn passed out of their line entirely.”

“We should do that just so we can stop hearing the name Ceorlic,” Malcolm said, still speaking under his breath so the debating nobility wouldn’t overhear. “It sounds like a respiratory condition.”

“Don’t you dare make me giggle in front of these people,” said Alistair. “Or—”

His threat was cut off when the debating suddenly quieted, and Arl Eamon cleared his throat before addressing those standing on the dais in front of the throne. “I believe the Landsmeet has reached a decisive majority, Your Majesties. It seems we are in favor of granting legitimacy to the boy known as Cáel, henceforth properly known as Cáel Theirin.”

A cheer went through the Landsmeet chamber, from nobles to pages to the guards. The enthusiasm of it took Malcolm by surprise. He’d assumed—hoped, really—that the nobility and people of Ferelden would be happy to have another Theirin in place should something happen to him and Alistair, but it seemed he’d underestimated how much stock Fereldans put into the line of Calenhad. As much as he hated admitting it, Eamon had proven himself right yet again. Despite there being a way to elect a monarch from another line, and Ferelden having a great many nobles fully capable of ruling the country, as a whole, the Fereldans wanted Theirins on the throne. The response to the newly legitimized Cáel illustrated that preference rather strongly. 

Cáel, on his part, had gotten past the incredulous fascination with the room of new people and new noises, and startled at the sudden, great roar of the cheering after a relative quiet. Following the startle came the beginnings of crying, and Malcolm did his best to comfort him. But he was wearing armor, and cold dragonbone wasn’t the best thing for snuggling. Close to the worst, really, as Cáel discovered when he tried to bury his face against his father’s chest. His cries became even more dismayed, and Malcolm was at a loss. He glanced back at Líadan, who at first looked like she was going to take him, and then she glanced down at her own armor and scowled. Nuala sighed at the two of them before sweeping forward to take a squalling Cáel. 

“He’s hungry,” she said quietly to those gathered on the dais. “The goings-on here distracted him well enough to make him forget for a little while, but now he’s remembered with a vengeance. He’s done his duty today, thought, hasn’t he? If I go feed him, need I bring him back once he’s done?”

“No, he’s all set for now,” said Alistair. “He did a good job. He lasted longer before bursting into tears at a Landsmeet than some grown men I know.”

Nuala smiled at the King, dipped her head in a quick bow, and then bustled from the room as she shushed Cáel. Kennard followed close behind, but Líadan remained in the Landsmeet chamber. Since Malcolm was filling more royal duty at the Landsmeet than Warden, it would be her responsibility to represent the Grey Wardens’ position from the Arling of Vigil’s Keep in Malcolm’s stead. Which, Malcolm thought, was a bit strange, since he was supposed to already be filling in for Hildur. He supposed they should eventually figure out who’d come after Líadan if the both of them were indisposed, and Hildur unavailable.

Not Oghren. Definitely not Oghren.

When Líadan moved away from the dais, up the stairs, and into the place in the upper gallery where Hildur usually stood, it was noticed. However, the majority of the looks cast in her direction were of confusion or curiosity rather than anger or dislike. 

Finally, Arl Wulff asked, “And where is Warden Commander Hildur? I had expected to see her here, and not one of her Senior Wardens.” The heavily bearded man inclined his head to Líadan in a gesture of apology. “I meant no offense, Warden Líadan. I am sure you are capable. It’s just that we had expected to speak with Warden Commander Hildur in some detail about her plans for the Grey Wardens.”

Líadan returned the gesture, and then flashed a smile. “No offense taken. And I’d much rather Hildur be in the hot seat over me. Answering in-depth questions from the Landsmeet is way beyond my pay grade.”

“Personally, I’d rather the darkspawn,” said Teagan, which made the already warmly laughing Landsmeet laugh more. 

Once the chuckling quieted, Alistair said, “Hildur is recruiting at Kinloch Hold. The Fereldan Wardens are dangerously short on mages, healers in particular.”

Bann Franderel frowned as soon as Kinloch Hold was mentioned. “Why not bring Wardens in from elsewhere instead of removing more mages from the safety of the Circle?”

“If that’s what you prefer, but...” Alistair shrugged for effect. “I have to tell you, there’s a high probability those Wardens would be Orlesian.”

“Better a Fereldan mage made a Grey Warden than allowing any more Orlesians here than absolutely necessary,” said Teyrna Cauthrien.

“Then where is Nathaniel Howe?” asked Sighard. “Was he not supposed to succeed Hildur at Vigil’s Keep? If that’s so, then it’s he who should be here representing the Warden Commander, not one of the Senior Wardens from the Denerim compound.”

“He was lost,” said Malcolm. “The Grey Wardens suffered many losses in the past year.” He was very careful not to specify. If they worded everything correctly, they wouldn’t have to give away any Warden-kept secrets. Alistair had already spoken with Delilah Howe and secured her secrecy before the Landsmeet, so that she would not assume that her only living brother was dead. As for the rest of the Landsmeet, Hildur had decided it would be best for them to assume Nathaniel had died.

“During the Battle of Highever?” came the question from the upper gallery.

“Yes,” said Anora. “He was scouting when he was lost.”

Though he’d been briefed of the plan, Malcolm was still almost shocked at the amount of tiptoeing going on around the line between truth and lies.

“The Wardens’ numbers do seem a bit thin,” said Arl Bryland. 

“Dangerous, not to have enough,” Teagan said after nodding in agreement at Bryland. “The Blight is still too close to forget the dangers of not having enough Wardens to keep vigil.”

There were more nods of agreement, and a vigorous one from Wulff. “The Southern Bannorn learned that the hard way, unfortunately.” He looked over at Malcolm. “Are there more recruiting efforts beyond Kinloch Hold?”

Malcolm was getting slightly perturbed—only slightly—that they kept addressing him with Grey Warden questions and not Líadan. But most knew he was technically the highest-ranking active Warden in the city for the time being, and since he was physically _there_ , though not standing where the Warden representative would stand in the chamber, they were most likely finding it difficult to not address him. A quick glance over to Líadan revealed that she didn’t mind in the least, her posture relaxed at not facing the Landsmeet’s questions on her own. He returned his gaze to Arl Wulff. “We’ll be actively recruiting through the year from the compound here in Denerim.” He looked beyond Wulff to sweep his gaze over the crowd. “If you know of anyone interested, send them to see me there.”

“So you will be staying in the city, then, rather than traipsing all over Thedas?” asked Eamon. “Because the newly named prince will need to be raised at or near the palace. Preferably at, but near will suffice in comparison to where you’ve been in the past year.”

Malcolm resisted the flare of anger caused by Eamon’s not-so-subtle dig. Teagan noticed, judging by the glare he gave his brother, and then he spoke to soften the jab. “Though we do understand your heavy traveling has to do with matters from the Blight. Really, you’ve not had time to stop and truly rest since the start of the Blight. Rest from such matters would do you good. You’ve worked hard enough.”

If Eamon hadn’t spoken first, Malcolm would have suspected Alistair of putting Teagan up to his comment. However, Teagan was more observant than he let on, bann of a minor holding or not, and his views were given weight and consideration from the Landsmeet. Most did not forget that it had been Teagan who’d called Loghain on his actions during and after Ostagar, before the civil war really started in earnest. He nodded at Teagan, and then directly addressed Eamon. “I’ll be stationed at the Denerim compound, heading it for the foreseeable future.”

“Excellent.” Eamon steepled his hands from where he had his elbows propped on the rail in front of him, looking pleased with himself.

“If Nathaniel was lost during the Battle of Highever, is it true that other Wardens came to Ferelden’s aid? I heard rumor that they had, but wasn’t sure how much credence to put in them, because I’ve also heard the Wardens are supposed to be politically neutral,” Bryland said after a brief silence. Then he chuckled. “Well, Grey Warden king aside.”

“They did help,” said Cauthrien. “They did much of the scouting, and drew away the second dragon when it looked as if it might turn on our army.”

“I also heard some of the Orlesians were made Wardens,” said Wulff. “Is this true?”

Alistair straightened to his full height. “They requested asylum. They were thoroughly vetted to make sure they weren’t spies. However, if any come under suspicion in the future, they will be sent to Weisshaupt for the Wardens there to deal with.”

If it came to that, Malcolm wished Astrid were alive and there to ‘deal’ with them. She would’ve been a particularly well-suited choice for it.

“It still remains that the Wardens require higher numbers,” said Anora. “Warden Commander Hildur has assured me that, going forward, all efforts will be made to recruit from our countrymen, if they are to be assigned here.”

Wulff shifted his weight, seemingly unsatisfied with the answers he’d received. “What of the new Warden from Kirkwall, found after the Orlesians were recruited?”

“Conscripted,” Malcolm said under his breath.

Anora sighed just loudly enough for him to hear.

Malcolm ignored the implied admonishment in favor of answering Wulff’s question. “The new Warden was a refugee from Ferelden before she lived in Kirkwall. Lothering, to be specific. Weisshaupt thought it best to assign her to her home country.”

Finally, Wulff seemed to have heard enough satisfactory information to let the matter drop. “Miracle that anyone made it out of there alive. I’ve no argument with that.”

“If there’s anything else?” Alistair asked during the pause. “If not, I believe the Divine would like an audience. She has been waiting.” No one missed that the King left out ‘patiently.’

Alfstanna scoffed. “She can wait the rest of her natural life, for all I care about her Orlesian apologies.” Several of the nobles voiced their agreement, accompanied by a bit of rabble rousing and stamping of feet.

“She’s getting on in age,” said Malcolm, “so that wait may not be as long as you’d assume.”

“She going to steal any more of our land like she did Fergus?” asked Sighard.

“Only if the Landsmeet ratifies it,” said Alistair. “If you’re so inclined.”

“She can take Teagan’s bannorn,” said Bryland, his tone teasing and very not serious.

Teagan made a show of stroking his goatee. “Provided I get your arling in return, Leonas.”

Malcolm couldn’t help the smile he felt forming and finally stopped holding it back. There were reasons why he loved this place, these people, and their approaches to life—despite how much they could vex—they were very much like his own. He felt at home here, and doubted he’d feel the same anywhere else.

Anora clapped her hands to draw the wandering attention of the nobles. “Lords and ladies, if we could attend to the final matter scheduled for this first day of the Landsmeet?”

“Not until we recognize Teyrna Cauthrien for her actions during the battle,” said Fergus. Then he shared a look with Anora and Alistair that revealed they’d planned this move previously. It was calculated; they would be honoring Cauthrien not only while the Divine wasn’t present, but before the Divine was granted her audience. Malcolm nearly wished they could honor Cauthrien with the Divine present—and silent—so they could rub in the victory. Nearly wished, though. He recognized the need for civility, especially when the Knight-Vigilant knew about Líadan. If Fereldan’s Landsmeet chose to insult the Divine and the Chantry so openly, the Knight-Vigilant could easily strike back with his knowledge of the secret. 

Since the Landsmeet had just granted Cáel his legitimacy, Malcolm didn’t think news of another possible bastard would go over well. Not that Líadan’s child would technically be a bastard, not if Dalish bonding was recognized as valid in some way. He’d somehow have to investigate it without giving anything away. He knew it wasn’t possible that bonding was fully accepted, and so he needed the details, to make absolutely certain that at least the children would be considered legitimate.

Messy, very messy, the whole thing. Best to turn thoughts back to easy things, like honoring Cauthrien for being a very good general. Loghain had taught her well, judging by the march and victory she’d managed at Highever. Even without the dragon, Ferelden very well might have pulled off the victory, though with far greater losses, including a sacking of Highever Castle. Flemeth’s intervention, however, had saved much of Ferelden’s army, even in its sorry post-Blight state.

“Would you agree, Your Majesties?” asked Fergus. “Because without Cauthrien’s fast march from the Southern Bannorn, her strategy when she arrived, and the fierce fighting of our army under her command, Highever, Drake’s Fall, and possibly all the Coastlands could have been lost to the templars. Instead, the Orlesians have once again been chased from our land, the only ones left remaining here to bow and scrape before us in apology for their rash actions.”

Alistair gave Fergus a solemn nod. “The Crown agrees. Entirely.” Then he shifted his serious gaze to where Cauthrien stood on the ground floor of the chamber. “Teyrna Cauthrien, if you would step forward.” As Cauthrien shot Fergus a dirty look then started to make her way out of the crowd, Alistair signaled to a waiting page. After a curt nod, the page rushed off through a side door. When Cauthrien reached the clear area in front of the raised dais, Alistair grinned at her, and then turned his gaze over the Landsmeet. “Lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, may I present to you the Hero of Drake’s Fall, who turned the tide of battle against the Orlesian templars, and remains an inspiration to all Fereldans.”

Though a slight blush could be detected on Cauthrien’s cheeks, she took the accolade well, offering a bow to the gathered nobility as they applauded and cheered.

Then the page returned, accompanied by two other pages, all of them helping to carry a large, cloth-covered crate. 

“We also have prepared for you a token of our appreciation,” said Anora.

As the pages set the crate between Cauthrien and the dais where Alistair and Anora stood, Cauthrien gave the King and Queen a quizzical look, a look that could almost be named as trepidation. Malcolm didn’t blame her, even though he knew what was in it.

“It’s armor,” Alistair said when Cauthrien continued regard the crate warily.

The wary look shifted to Alistair. “Armor, Your Majesty?”

He half-rolled his eyes, yet managed to appear kingly while doing it. “Yes, armor. Like you’d wear on a battlefield or a Landsmeet, even.” After allowing a pause to let the light laughter dissipate, he gestured toward his head. “There’s a helm.” The way Alistair said it, it sounded as if he were a merchant convincing Cauthrien to buy the armor.

“I have a helm. It’s perfectly serviceable. I do not require commissioned armor, Your Majesties. While I am honored—”

Anora let out a frustrated sigh with such force that it made Malcolm wonder exactly how long she’d been holding it in. He also wondered just _how_ frustrated she was, because it wasn’t like her to display anything less than complete control while in public. Cauthrien’s thoughts must’ve been along the same lines, because she fell silent and stared at Anora in askance. Anora met the stare, and then said, “I believe you will approve of this armor, Teyrna Cauthrien. I suggest you look at it before you render your decision on whether or not it is acceptable.”

At Alistair’s nod, the pages removed the cloth covering the top of the crate. “Armor of the Divine Will,” said Alistair. “You may recognize it, for it once belonged to the Knight-Vigilant who led the Orlesian troops on Highever. We didn’t think she needed it any longer.” He pointed toward the crate, where pages were lifting out some of the major pieces to display to Cauthrien and the Landsmeet. “We had a master smith replace the spaulders with pauldrons, since the weak spot under a spaulder was what allowed the mortal blow to fell the Knight-Vigilant.”

A mortal blow that Cauthrien herself had delivered. The armor was a war-prize, to be sure. An unsubtle reference to what the Hero of River Dane had done at his defining battle, when he slew the Chevalier commander of the Orlesian forces.

A smile twitched at the corners of Cauthrien’s mouth; she had easily caught the reference. “I believe this armor may suffice as a replacement for my own.”

“Thought so.” Alistair grinned again, this one more mischievous than the last.

Cauthrien bowed toward the King and Queen. “Thank you, Your Majesties.”

It wasn’t until she began to walk away that Alistair spoke again. “Wait, one more thing.” He nodded at another waiting page, who had been standing quietly in the periphery, holding a large leather pouch. At the King’s command, he opened the pouch and handed over the folded papers within. Cauthrien watched the exchange with increasingly puzzled eyes, even going so far as to give Anora a questioning look, but Anora’s schooled expression gave nothing away.

“I recently came into possession of a letter.” Alistair held up the letter and waved it about for illustration. “A letter that recognized your true heritage, Teyrna Cauthrien. At the request of my wife, the Queen, at the witnessed statements of my father, King Maric, and—” There, Alistair paused until he’d gained Cauthrien’s direct gaze. “— _your_ father, Teyrn Loghain, I grant you the rightful surname of Mac Tir. Considering the actions of Teyrn Loghain in the waning moments of his life, it will be your duty to return full honor to the name. We believe you are up to this challenge. Indeed, you have already begun.”

Cauthrien said nothing, her disbelieving stare flitting back and forth between the King and the Queen. The Landsmeet was equally silent before the energetic murmuring struck up amongst the crowd. Then Arl Wulff began to clap, the other arls quickly following with more applause and shouts of, “Well said!” 

Meanwhile, Cauthrien was still speechless, still staring at the King and Queen as if no Landsmeet existed around them, as if there were no possible way she could believe what the King had just told her.

Alistair handed the papers to Anora, who then stepped off the dais and over to Cauthrien. Once there, she pressed the papers into Cauthrien’s hand and whispered something that Malcolm couldn’t hear over the din of the crowd. But he did see Anora’s tight smile, Cauthrien’s cautious one, and then Anora embraced Cauthrien, as one would a sister. Which, Malcolm knew, was intentional. While it had probably been planned, the honesty of the gesture could not be hidden. 

“Well, that’s one way to show the Landsmeet her approval of the name,” Alistair said to Malcolm as they waited for a break in the noise. Anora and Cauthrien were still whispering to each other. “I wonder if we should’ve commended Flemeth for her actions while we were at it. Her dragon certainly helped with all the templar burning. Do you think she’d like a medal?”

“I’m not going to ask her. I’m lucky enough to have survived our last encounter. I’ve no wish for another. You’re on your own, brother.”

Alistair sighed. “No, I suppose no medal for Flemeth. Too bad. I would’ve liked to see the Divine face off with her. Instead, it’ll just be us and the Landsmeet dealing with the Divine.” Anora nodded at him, and Alistair nodded back. “And it looks like it’s time to summon the divinely impatient Divine.”


	36. Chapter 36

“The people of the far northern and eastern reaches of the Imperium rose up against their powerful overlords in rebellion. The Tevinter magisters summoned demons to put down these small rebellions, leaving corpses to burn as examples to all who would dare revolt. The Imperium began to tear itself apart from within, throngs of angry and disillusioned citizens doing what centuries of opposing armies could not. But the magisters were confident in their power, and they could not imagine surviving a Blight only to be destroyed by their own subjects.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****When Líadan saw Thierry slip into the Landsmeet chamber at Somerled’s signal, she thought the former templar appeared quite pale. Judging by his posture, it wasn’t because he was frightened. Then she remembered Oghren had led the poor man away last night, flask of dwarven ale already in hand. So he _had_ stayed up drinking with Oghren. She truly felt sorry for him. No one deserved that.

Thierry greeted her quietly as he moved to stand near her, and she nodded at him instead of glaring. His time of following her constantly was almost over, and she’d heard and witnessed enough guff he’d gotten from Bethany the night before. She hadn’t realized how bitter Bethany was in her assumption that Thierry was placed at the Denerim compound to watch over the mages. She’d tried explaining, more than once, that Thierry wasn’t a templar plant, but Bethany either continued ignoring it or didn’t believe her or anyone else who assured her of the same. 

A grumble made its way through the gathered crowd of the Landsmeet, and Líadan turned expectantly toward the main doors for the Divine’s entrance. But the doors were shut, so she had no idea what had generated the complaining this time.

As always, a Fereldan noble announced exactly what was bothering them. “What’s he doing here?” asked Bann Teagan. 

“Him, who?” asked Alistair.

Teagan pointed at Thierry. “Him.”

Alistair blinked, attempting to appear the picture of innocence and failing. “Oh, him? That’s Thierry. He’s a Warden, now.”

The bann gave Alistair a flat look that said, _Really?_ and then waved off his own unspoken question. “Nevermind that. What I mean is, what is he doing here right now? New Grey Warden or not, he’s an Orlesian, and this is a Fereldan Landsmeet. He has no business being here.”

“He does at the Divine’s request.” Alistair said one thing, but his tone conveyed how very _not_ committed to the decision he was.

“Why would the Divine request his presence?” asked Bann Alfstanna.

Still feeling somewhat sorry for Thierry having to deal with the Landsmeet’s accusations while in the throes of a dwarven ale induced hangover, Líadan decided to speak up. “She believes me a danger.” She did not, however, tell them the reason the Divine saw her as a danger. No need to remind them that she happened to be a mage.

Teagan snorted in disbelief. “A danger, truly?”

Líadan was almost insulted. Almost.

“She’s one of the heroes of the Blight!” said a bann Líadan couldn’t recognize.

“She defended Denerim against the darkspawn!” Shianni had shouted that one.

“And she fought the Archdemon alongside our King!” said Arl Wulff. 

Bann Sighard nodded at Wulff, and then said, “The Divine can issue commands and requests all she wants in Orlais or on Chantry business anywhere on Thedas, but she has no right dictating anything to our Landsmeet.”

Líadan had no wish to see the Divine again, and especially did not wish to see the Divine’s perpetual companion, the Knight-Vigilant. “I can go. Thierry will go where I do.”

“No,” Teagan said with a sharp shake of his head and a cutting motion made with his hand. “We will not allow the Divine to determine whom we allow into our Landsmeet. You will stay, Warden Líadan. Your actions have earned you a place as a representative of your Order. Your Chantry-appointed guard, however, is not welcome. Leave at once, Warden Thierry.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Thierry muttered, heading down the short flight of stairs from the upper gallery and straight for the doors. The main doors, Líadan noticed. Thierry stopped halfway between the landing of the stairs and the doors, as if remembering that he most likely needed the permission of the monarchs to leave. “If I may, Your Majesties?”

Alistair swept his arm toward the doors. “The Landsmeet has spoken, Warden. Your presence is not required.”

Thierry gave them a deep bow. “For that, Your Majesties, I am most grateful.” He paused, eyes twinkling with sly humor even with a hangover, and then said, “I will be sure to let the Divine know of the termination of my duties on my way out. I am certain Her Perfection will be most grateful to know she is in no danger.”

And despite Thierry being Orlesian by birth, most of the Landsmeet recognized the dig, and chuckled accordingly. A couple banns even clapped in appreciation. With that, Thierry exited, his posture much improved from when he’d entered, and his steps light.

As she watched him go, Líadan realized two things. First, the Landsmeet had defended her. Second, Eamon hadn’t said a word in participation of said defense. She wondered if he believed her more a threat than even the Divine. If he did, it was ridiculous for him to think so, considering she was one person—one person who did not have an army at her beck and call, like the Divine did.

“Captain Somerled, if you will,” Alistair said to the guard.

Seconds after Somerled disappeared through the doors, they opened again to admit first two nameless templars, followed by the Knight-Vigilant, and finally, the Divine. She wore robes of fine make, yet they were subdued in color. However, that strange wedge still rested upon her head. Also like before, at the docks in Highever, every person in the chamber not in the Divine’s entourage went to one knee and bowed their heads, save one.

Líadan barely kept herself from gaping in astonishment. This, out of the same people who were practically calling for this woman’s blood, who had been advocating open disagreement with the Chantry she headed, this subservience. It made her angry once again, to witness such a thing.

Then she remembered that their hands were tied, as had been explained to her, that the Chantry controlled so much that they could ill afford to truly defy it. The history of Líadan’s own people did a fine job of illustrating what happened when the smaller, weaker peoples went against the Chantry. They were utterly destroyed, rendered non-persons, and cast out if they did not pay obeisance, if they did not turn from their Creators. She did not forget that Ferelden was weak from the Highever battle, the civil war, and the Blight. Ferelden dared not remind the Chantry or the rest of Thedas of their weakness, lest one or more nations decide to take advantage and annex the entire country.

The least she could do was to remain standing, the only person in the room who could openly defy the Divine and what she stood for without too much backlash. It wasn’t like that dispensation would ever be granted, if they even chose to bother applying for it. And from what she’d seen of the Chantry so far, it wasn’t worth it. The Creators knew of her bonding, and that would have to be enough.

The two nameless templars noticed and glared up at her. She lifted her chin and glared right back. Ser Renaud followed the gaze of his templars and saw Líadan. He gritted his teeth; she could see from the flex of his jaw. Then he whispered to his templars to let it go, there were more important things to watch for than a single Dalish elf who had yet to pose a true danger. “Assassins,” he whispered even more quietly, but not too quiet for an elf to hear. “You must be vigilant for assassins who would seek to end Most Holy’s life.”

“Her templar is missing,” one of the lower-ranked templars whispered back.

“There are three of us here. If we three cannot keep Her Perfection safe from a single mage, we do not deserve our positions in her personal guard.”

As the whispering side conversation continued, Líadan saw Malcolm raise his head slightly, his eyes briefly flicking to the templars before glancing up at her. Then he winked. Before she could do anything more than stare, he lowered his head once more.

The Divine ignored, or did not notice, the small events transpiring around her. Instead, her gazed drifted over the Landsmeet before she nodded to herself. Then she raised an open hand. “As we bow our heads, let us look toward the example of Andraste as we seek to forgive, and as we ask for forgiveness for what each of our actions has done in the committing evils done in our past. And as we humbly beg for forgiveness, let us remember to forgive those who have wronged us, following the path of our prophet Andraste as she forgave those who transgressed against her, as is written in the Chant. So let it be.”

“So let it be,” the Landsmeet responded.

Líadan wasn’t an expert in human customs, but she was fairly certain an apology needed to contain an actual _apology_. Thus far, the Divine, in her flowery language, had practically blamed Ferelden for what had happened at Highever, perhaps even what had happened in what Ferelden called the Occupation. And yet, here the Fereldans were, accepting the Divine at her word. More and more, she understood why her ancestors had chosen defeat and exile over submission to an organization like the Chantry.

“You may rise,” said the Divine. Then she remained silent until the shuffles and sighs and creaking knees of a large crowd of people standing up passed. She looked over at the dais from where she stood before it. “Your Majesties,” she said, and then returned her attention to the nobility gathered in the chamber, “lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, and the freeholders of Ferelden, I journeyed from my seat at the Grand Cathedral to Highever to consecrate the land where a terrible battle had taken place, where a terrible battle had taken many lives, the majority of which were the lives of my Chantry’s knights. When I saw the battlefield, the scorch marks of burned-out pyres, and the stacked, burned armor of my knights, I crossed my heart with shame. The hunt I had conducted through my knights was a war waged on one woman that turned into a war on an entire nation. Once again, we waged wars.” 

There she paused, and fixed a heavy gaze on the people in the chamber. Alistair stood stiffly, almost at attention. Beside him, Anora’s lips were pressed into a firm line, her look on the Divine rife with suspicion and indignation. Malcolm’s hand had drifted to rest on his sword belt, just next to his sword’s grip. Around the chamber, Ferelden’s nobles shared many of the same looks, many of the same stances, many of the same expressions. They were catching on to the blame the Divine was placing on them in the guise of an apology for her own actions.

Regula continued after a nod toward the Landsmeet. “I felt fooled by Ferelden for harboring such a dangerous maleficar,” she said, her tone rising in the anger she must have felt, and perhaps still did at being so fooled. A flush rose in her cheeks, betraying her anger even further. “I believed I saw deceit take flight on the blackened wings of the Grey Wardens, as a Warden whispered in my ear where I might find the maleficar, or from whom I could gain the information needed to track down the maleficar. I could do naught but hold fast to the Chant. I held fast to Andraste’s precepts. ‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond.’ And so, I believed this maleficar could not be granted rest, that my knights could not rest until she was captured and put to death, her danger forever removed from this world.” Her hand cut through the air, a gesture of finality, of the execution she’d intended. Then it fell to her side, and her expression fell with it, the anger disappearing, the flush blooming into shame.

Líadan waited for the expected, _and I was wrong_ , but it never came, not so plainly spoken.

“There were truths spoken that I did not hear,” said the Divine. “Truths within myself that I ignored. I am mortal. I am human. I am not without fault. I am as capable of willful blindness as any other. Because this woman was so quickly declared a maleficar, I believed nothing else. I was not willing to see other possibilities, that she might not have been the danger we believed her to be. That she might not have been a blood mage.”

More than a few gasps were heard when the Divine paused to take a breath.

Then she resumed her speech, her next sentence spoken softly compared to the self-assurance and volume from before. “With her lost, I suppose we shall never know.” She paused again to look up at the ceiling, perhaps thinking she looked toward her Maker and her Andraste. “There is one truth I know,” she said, slowly bringing her gaze back down. “All things are known to the Maker, and he shall judge our lies. Knowing this, I shall not lie to you in what I have done. Because, our Chant says, it is the one who repents, who has faith, who is unshaken by the darkness in the world, who will know true peace. I wish to know this peace, yet I was shaken by what I perceived as darkness. In the shadows of my dogged pursuit, I had lost my direction. I had lost my faith. For this, I ask forgiveness.” Her voice, though it had become louder, was roughened by what sounded like true regret. Her eyes, when they looked upon the people in the chamber, were watery.

Was this the same woman who’d been in Highever? The same woman who’d made demands and expected them to be fulfilled? The same woman who carried herself like she were a god?

And this same woman knelt before the Landsmeet, her robes billowing on the floor, and bowed her head. “When I arrived here, I came to look upon what pride had wrought, and despaired. The Chantry waged war; I waged war. Fire was our punishment, fire from a great dragon in this Age of dragons, a great sign of wrongdoing. I humbly beg forgiveness for the despair I and my Chantry and my knights have wrought.”

The Divine raised her head, but remained on her knee, a mirror of how the humans had given her their respect at the beginning. “I saw only the maleficar, what I believed to be one hated and accursed by our Maker. I believed it my holy and solemn duty to carry out the Maker’s work in Andraste’s name, and wipe this abomination from the face of Thedas. I had to protect Andraste’s people, Her legacy. Despite whatever other evidence was brought before me, I saw nothing else. I felt nothing else. 

“As the maleficar continued to evade capture from my Chantry’s finest knights, as those who knew her evaded our questioning or gave false testimony, I was consumed. And then spite ate away all that was good, kind, and loving, till nothing was left but the spite itself, coiled ‘round my heart like a great worm.”

Shocked whispers hummed through the crowd, though Líadan didn’t know why. She recognized the Divine must have been quoting more from the Andrastian Chant, but it wasn’t something she hadn’t done before in her speech—even Líadan had recognized lines she’d heard the chanter outside of Denerim’s chantry recite. From the bottom of the gallery stairs, where Renaud had chosen to stand guard, Líadan heard him inhale sharply before walking toward Regula. His steps at first were slow, and then sped up as it became clear that she wasn’t done with her speech.

Almost in a world of her own, the Divine ignored the whispers and carried on. “Andraste laid her hand on Maferath’s heart, purifying him, granting him forgiveness. I ask of you, good people of Ferelden—”

The Knight-Vigilant had finally gotten to the Divine and touched a hand to her elbow, which seemed to jolt her out of whatever trance she was in. Líadan had no idea why Renaud would dare interrupt the leader of his religion, but the increasing volume of the Landsmeet indicated the others might know. Her elven hearing allowed her to discern Renaud’s whispers to the Divine about a dissonant verse, whatever that meant.

Regula paled at her Knight-Vigilant’s words, and stumbled as if stricken. Only Renaud’s solid presence kept her from losing her footing entirely. After attempting to hide a grimace and not entirely succeeding, Renaud addressed Anora and Alistair. “Our Most Holy has exhausted herself with the delivery of her apology, Your Majesties. I offer my own apologies, but I must escort her out so that she may rest and recover.”

“Go ahead, Knight-Vigilant. See to your duty.” Alistair’s voice held no rancor, and as he watched Ser Renaud help the Divine out of the room, concern tinged his gaze.

Once the two of them were through the doors, the other two templars following, Líadan heard Regula quietly ask Ser Renaud, “Am I forgiven?” There was a pause, and she asked again, her voice cracking. “Am I forgiven?” She sounded so impossibly broken that Líadan saw her as mortal for the first time.

Then, with finality, the doors to the Landsmeet chamber swung shut. 

Silence followed.

Malcolm interrupted it by clearing his throat, and then looking over at Alistair. “Was there an apology in all that? Because I’m not sure. I’m really not. She sounded sincere, whatever it was she said.”

“I don’t know.” Alistair still hadn’t taken his eyes from the door. “Frankly, I’m starting to think she’s either gone or is going ‘round the bend. She used quotations from the Dissonant Verses! For Maker’s sake, she’s the Divine! The Chantry’s official stance is that those verses don’t even exist. Must be why the Knight-Vigilant stopped her, is my guess.” He sighed and faced the Landsmeet. “Little hard to hold a grudge at this point, honestly. If she’s not in her right mind, who knows how long she’s been mental?”

“The Knight-Vigilant, I suspect,” said Sighard.

“That would be true if the current Knight-Vigilant had held the position previous to the battle. But he’s relatively new to the position. The Knight-Vigilant before him happened to be the general of the templar forces that marched on Highever—Valeria. She may have known the Divine’s condition, but she’s a bit beyond us to put to questioning.” Alistair crossed his arms and surveyed the gathered nobility. “Is the Landsmeet satisfied with the Divine’s overtures?”

“Wasn’t half-bad, for an Orlesian,” said Alfstanna. “Not backhanded, just muddled.”

Wulff grunted, very forthright in showing how much he no longer cared for any of the proceedings. “I’ll accept it, if it gets the Orlesians out of Ferelden.”

“Will they take Lord Hilaire?” asked Fergus. “We could make our acceptance contingent upon his _leaving_.”

Alistair rubbed at his chin, considering it. “I suppose we could.” Then he nodded. “All right. So there we have it? Are we done for today, and we’ll move onto the mundane things like apple trees, mabari names, and blood feuds on the morrow?” None of the nobles disagreed, and the King declared the day’s assembly to be over. 

Like Alistair, Anora, and Malcolm, Líadan waited for most of the gathered nobility to leave the chamber before heading down from the second-floor gallery. Malcolm met her at the bottom of the steps, but Alistair and Anora stood at the bottom of the dais, addressing various banns and arls who were too impatient to wait for Alistair’s official time for granting audiences, held the day after the end of the entire Landsmeet. Usually, it lasted three interminably long days, so they had two days left before Alistair was scheduled to see nobles individually, or in small numbers for cases needing mediation. Alistair would most likely be tied up for days.

“Don’t look that relieved,” Malcolm said when she emerged from behind the group of nobles going down the stairs. “There’s still at least a day, probably two, left of this.” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Neither one of them will be as exciting today, though. Unless there’s a duel. Or a riot.”

She smirked at him, smug that she wouldn’t have to endure. “Except I’m not the Senior Warden in charge of the compound, and therefore Hildur’s representative. Since you aren’t doing special prince things for the rest of the Landsmeet, guess who has to be here, and who doesn’t?”

He scowled. “You’re not very nice.”

“You only say that when I’m right.”

His scowl remained, deepening when he glanced across the Landsmeet chamber. “Eamon’s giving me a look. _That_ look. Time to go.” He started out, and she followed, only for Nuala to meet them just outside the chamber. A full, once again content Cáel observed the goings-on from his perch on her hip. Malcolm grinned and practically swept the boy from Nuala’s arms, and then swung him up and around. “You’re safe now,” he told him. “Secure as you can be, at least according to the Landsmeet. Well, that could change with the _next_ Landsmeet, but we’ll take what we can get.”

“Eh, I reckon the lad won’t come to question for at least three Landsmeets, maybe four,” said Arl Wulff as he exited the chamber. “He’ll have to hit the terrible twos and terrorize the palace before the Bannorn will wonder if they should have voted differently.” He gave Malcolm a genial slap on the shoulder. “He’s a good-looking boy. Keep doing right by him, lad, and he’ll turn out well.” With that, Bryland continued down the corridor, intent on whatever business of his own he had.

“See, there you go, the easiest approval from a Fereldan noble you’ll ever get,” Malcolm said to Cáel, and then spun him around again. Cáel, on his part, seemed at first perplexed about being whirled about, and then a cautious smile erupted into giggles.

That was a sound, Líadan decided, that she could stand to hear a whole lot more.

“Keep up like that, Your Highness,” said Nuala, “and you’ll end up with his lunch on your face.”

Malcolm balked, stopped the spinning, and quickly handed the child to Líadan. “Here, he might have a present for you.”

Though she scowled at Malcolm, she did take the boy. Cáel’s eyes immediately settled on her face. His look became serious again as his hand patted at her _vallaslin_ , first on a cheek, and then her forehead. As he’d grown, the designs had drawn his notice more, as if he were seeing more of the details of them, and had become a source of fascination. Her attempts to keep him from poking her eye with his small fingers caused her to look through the open Landsmeet chamber doors. Through the open doors and straight at Arl Eamon, who glared in her direction, and seemed to have been doing so before she’d turned. She supposed Eamon could have been glaring at Cáel, but considering the pressure Eamon had constantly put on Alistair and Malcolm to produce heirs, it didn’t make sense for the arl to be resentful of an actual and legitimate Theirin heir.

The dark thunderhead that was Eamon’s expression said otherwise, if it was directed at Cáel. Directed either at her or her son, it did not bode well.

Líadan could not, would not, forget Eamon’s stone-faced expression and complete silence while the majority of the Landsmeet had decried the Chantry’s requirement for her to have a templar escort. It was almost like Eamon had been willing to let the Orlesians win, so long as it meant anything or anyone he deemed a threat to Theirin blood on the throne was put down. She couldn’t see any other reason for it. As far as she knew, he had no other reason to dislike her that wasn’t directly connected to her being a Dalish elf and with Malcolm. And while she knew Alistair, Anora, Malcolm, Fergus, and many others, would keep Eamon from moving openly against her and her presence, she couldn’t stop the dread from creeping in to freeze the warmth she’d gained from hearing the Landsmeet speak up in her favor. Even recalling Eamon’s expression caused a shiver from cold fear of what he could do. As Alistair had pointed out more than once, Arl Eamon still held quite a bit of power in the Landsmeet. 

If it came to it, he could probably force a decision from the Landsmeet regarding her status. If he found out about her child this soon, if he _knew_ , it would get very ugly, and she could be compelled to leave. If their bonding had been sanctioned by the Chantry, her banishment would be much harder for Eamon to accomplish, and it was that realization that allowed her to contemplate applying for the dispensation. Then she remembered how strange everything had gone with the Divine’s apology, the interruption by Ser Renaud, the murmurs of shock, the Divine stumbling out, leaning heavily against the Knight-Vigilant’s stalwart shoulders. If the woman had succumbed to the fog of confusion seen in some of the elders, there would be no predicting her decision on the matter of a dispensation. 

“I see you’re getting the look, as well,” Malcolm said, jostling her from her thoughts.

Líadan sighed. “He’s been looking at me like that for well over a year. I’m used to it.”

“Liar.”

She didn’t bother replying. She didn’t need to.

“He’s certainly got his knickers in a twist, hasn’t he?” said Nuala, pitched low enough that she wouldn’t be overheard by passersby, but loud enough to disrupt the pause.

Kennard, however, standing near them as he ever was, chuckled softly. “You might want to recall that’s the Arl of Redcliffe you’re talking about. Most powerful holding in Ferelden after the teyrnirs.”

Nuala was unfazed. “I’m perfectly safe. My employer outranks him. And,” she said, beckoning for Cáel and settling back on her hip once Líadan handed him over, “I’m the nurse for the heir-presumptive. In some ways, I outrank _him_.” She brightened. “I could get to like this.” Then she nodded, and motioned Kennard down the hall. “Come on. I’ve got to get this wee boy in for a nap.”

When the nurse and guard strode down the corridor, heading for the back hallways, Malcolm and Líadan followed. It wasn’t until they were nearly to the Warden compound and well away from any of the nobility before Líadan felt safe asking him, “What’s a dissonant verse?”

His brows came together for a moment before he worked out why the question would’ve come up. “Canticles stricken from the Chant of Light when the Chantry decides it no longer suits their world view, such as Maferath repenting.”

“Why would they take that out?” Humans made no sense, sometimes. How a person who’d betrayed a bondmate could repent and be forgiven not being something good to include in a religious volume of text, she wasn’t sure. “What’s wrong with Maferath being forgiven?”

“Because then they’d be left without someone to be mad at for Andraste’s death, I suppose. The Archon repented first, so Maferath was the only one left to take the fall and keep it. So.”

She glanced over at him, curious as to why he’d stopped there. “So?”

“So... I was hoping you’d jump in, because I ran out of witty things to say.”

Líadan put an arm around his waist—she couldn’t do the same with his shoulders from this position and keep walking at the same time—and briefly drew him closer to her side. Then she leaned in and said softly, “Malcolm, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but... you ran out of wit ages ago. In fact,” she continued saying even as he began to pantomime a mortal chest wound, “I’m not sure you ever had it in the first place.”

“Oghren was right. That’s just mean. You’re just mean.”

“Truth hurts.” As Malcolm continued to act indignant over her jab, Líadan considered the conversation they’d just had. “I’ve noticed something.”

His look toward her was understandably wary. “I’m afraid to ask, but, what?”

“The Chantry, humans, by extension, if they have no one to blame, their blame becomes indiscriminate until they hit on something they can hate. Maferath, for instance. Or the elves, even though we helped Andraste. The mages, even though I’ve heard more than just you theorize that Andraste had been a mage herself.”

“Oh, blasphemy. My favorite. Do go on.”

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t blasphemy if a non-believer speaks it. It’s conjecture.”

“You know as well as I do that the Chantry would see it differently. They can be bullies in how they pick fights.” His face darkened into a frown, surely recalling the struggles he’d had in the recent past with the Chantry. And yet, there he remained, fully Andrastian like every other human. 

“If you have such problems with your Chantry, why do you still act as if you believe?”

The question brought him up short, and he nearly tripped in how quickly he stopped. “Because I do.”

His answer brought Líadan up short, and she made a small motion with her hand for him to explain.

He did, or rather, in his way, tried. “Not in the actual Chantry as it is now. Maybe even not the Chantry when it was founded. But in Andraste, I think I do. I’ve been to her temple. It was during the Blight, before we picked you up. There were things that happened there that can’t be explained, not by any magic I’ve heard of. And the ashes we brought back to Redcliffe managed to cure Eamon when nothing else could.” His mouth twisted in a half-frown. “All right, maybe I’m starting to regret that part a little. Even so, in the person who was Andraste, I think I believe in her. She was a slave who rose up, gathered armies, and rebelled against unjust, unworthy rulers.” He smiled at her. “She also got along fairly well with elves, and was most likely a mage, like you said.”

Líadan crossed her arms, still not satisfied with the explanation. “And what about the Maker? What about her betrayal of Maferath? He was her bondmate, and yet she somehow became the Maker’s bride? She had children with Maferath—I read it in a book Wynne lent me—and yet she’s venerated for leaving him for another. In Dalish clans, that’s highly frowned upon behavior, not celebrated. Doing things like that weaken a clan.”

“I certainly don’t venerate _that_ part.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the Chantry made that bit up. They wipe canticles from the Chant when they no longer suit them, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t add in what they need to justify their actions.”

“At times, it seems like they’d go to any length to justify whatever actions they feel necessary.”

“See, now you’re catching on like any doubting, blaspheming Andrastian.”

“You remember at Sundermount—”

His eyes took on a dreamy look. “Do I _ever_.”

 She ignored his implication, mostly because she didn’t want to think about its current consequences, and kept speaking. “—when you mentioned that Andraste might’ve been possessed when she visited the mountain?”

“I do. I tend to remember when I say something heretical.”

“I’m starting to think it has merit. Even a very powerful mage would’ve had trouble doing what Andraste is said to have done. But a mage possessed by a spirit of the Beyond driven to change the unfair state of the mortal realm? That could be devastating. It was to Tevinter.”

He rubbed at his chin as he mulled over the idea, having become serious. “Were that true, it makes me wonder where another such spirit is now, if another would intervene with the Chantry and right its wrongs.” Then he sighed. “Wouldn’t want to delude myself into thinking there’s anything more than false hope.” He started for the heavy doors of the Warden compound, and then stopped with his hand on the knob. “However, remind me to never take any mage up on Sundermount’s slopes ever again, should a spirit decide they want to right the world’s wrongs. It would just be a mess if they did.”

“Because things aren’t a mess as they are?” she asked, but then waved off him needing to answer when it was so obvious, and they were so tired. If there was to be change, they needed time to rest and regroup before dealing with it. Of course, the world had a way of working in the opposite way of their favor.


	37. Chapter 37

“Before the First Blight, there lived an old man and woman. One day, a beautiful stranger came to their house, seeking shelter. The old man and woman gave her food to eat and a downy mattress to sleep upon. In return, she offered them a golden mirror that would grant three wishes.

Looking into the mirror, the woman frowned at her wrinkles and grey hair. ‘I wish I were young again,’ she said. Suddenly, the face of a lovely maiden stared back at her. The man angrily grabbed the mirror, saying, ‘You’re so selfish! You could have given youth to us both! I wish you weren’t so stupid.’

At once, the woman was brilliant beyond measure and saw that her husband had never loved her; he tolerated her only because her age and ignorance made his own seem less by comparison.

Angry now, the old woman grabbed for the mirror—at the same time, they both said, ‘I hate you. I wish that you get exactly what you deserve!’ With that, they were back together, both ugly and old, but now knowing exactly how much contempt they had for each other.”

— _The Demon’s Gift_

**Morrigan**

****She halted when she heard footsteps behind her; anger flared through her. How _dare_ he abandon his responsibilities. How _dare_ he leave behind the closest person Morrigan had to a sister. How _dare_ he leave their son behind, to be raised by neither of them. How _dare_ he again defy her expectations. She spun around to loose her tirade upon him. “How _dare_ —”

And stopped short, her mouth snapping shut in mid-sentence.

The man who had followed her was not Malcolm. _He_ had remained behind, keeping the promise he’d made to her, to their son, and to Líadan. He was on a path far separate from her own, gone from her life and her future.

This man, however, had strong-armed his way into hers. How dare _he_. Her voice, and outrage, returned. “Why have you followed me?”

“To be your guide, as promised,” said Nathaniel. “I will continue to hold to said promise for your protection.”

The audacity of the man forced her into a struggle for words. “My protection? Just what is it from which you believe you can provide me protection?”

“The taint. Darkspawn.” His head dipped far enough to indicate the child in the sling at her front. “If not for you, then for your son.”

The depth of the situation, the unknown, struck her, and her fingertips went cold at the realization. Her tone dropped to a barely above a whisper. “Have you any what you’ve done, you ignorant fool?”

“Kept a vow, my lady.”

She fought the instinct to strangle him, her fingers twitching in want to do so. “You are a Grey Warden. You have brought the taint to where it did not exist before. This place was innocent, and you have sullied it.”

The resolution in his eyes faltered for the first time. “I did not think—”

“No, you did not.” She turned her back on him before her temper was entirely loosed. His foolishness had put her plans at risk, not to mention her son, as well as the place of their refuge. She would at least look upon Arlathan before the taint touched it, if that what was going to happen due to a Grey Warden’s presence. It was possible that the taint would remain inside him and not touch the outside world for quite some time, for Wardens did not taint others on Thedas. At least, not unless they ignored their Calling at the end of their lives, and therefore allowed themselves to become ghouls.

No. She would kill him and burn his corpse herself before she would allow such an outcome.

A more immediate concern was the question of his mortality. His was certain, since he was entirely human, as far as she or anyone else knew. Her own mortality, and any danger she might pose, wasn’t as certain, being a daughter of Flemeth, were she truly Flemeth’s blood. As she’d told Malcolm and the others, Flemeth was not entirely human, and she had been alive for hundreds of years, perhaps even since the beginning of time. Being Flemeth’s blood, Morrigan could assume her life would not end as soon as a typical human’s, especially since Flemeth had not managed to take her body for her own. 

This Nathaniel, this Grey Warden, was more of a danger to the elves of Arlathan than she was. She suspected they had regained most, if not all, of their immortality since they had been separated from humanity for well over a thousand years. Away from humanity, and as they had been before _Elvhenan_ fell and Tevinter reigned, and all of them mages. Arlathan, her place of refuge, of safety. She could feel the thrumming power of the magic of thousands of mages, could almost reach out and touch it.

That they had exited the portal to arrive in a dusty corner of what looked to be a library was of no consequence. The mere power—though there was nothing _mere_ about it—surrounding her confirmed it to be Arlathan. There wasn’t a single soul from whom she did not feel the power of magic. Cianán already projected an aura humming with the potential waiting to be unlocked. She was no slouch, herself. Then, next to her, she felt a lack of magic. A singular dimness marked the one person thus far in Arlathan who was not a mage. She looked out the corner of her eye to confirm her suspicion.

Nathaniel had moved to stand beside her. His eyes did not meet her surreptitious gaze, instead scanning the room they were in, as if scouting out the place. 

Blasted man. She did not require protection.

Morrigan felt compelled to put distance between the two of them, but remained still, refusing to show weakness. “If the taint you bear does not kill these elves, your mortality will.”

“I had forgotten the ancient elves did not die. In my schooling, Arlathan was always referred to as a myth.”

Arlathan. Where powerful magic could be honed and a god child could be raised. Where she would find the key to Flemeth’s end, once and for all.

If this interfering, impudent Grey Warden did not ruin it. He had followed without training, without ridding himself of preconceptions and prejudices indoctrinated in him from his Chantry. Not knowing the laws and strictures of the elves of Arlathan, she could not risk killing him so soon, and certainly not outright. For now, she would have to suffer his presence. They all would. “Very few of the elves here will not be mages. Let us hope you do not hold the same opinions of magic as your fool Chantry, or your stay will be unpleasant.” She also hoped for short; her ability to abide was not infinite.

“It is not my Chantry.”

“Good. Then you might not be killed on the spot.”

“By them, you mean. You still have not decided if you will kill me yourself.”

It was more so when she would kill him than if she would, but he did not need to know. It already disturbed her that he could divine her thoughts so easily. That said, it wasn’t as if she’d been subtle about her feelings on the matter of his presence. “It remains to be seen.”

He let out a rough chuckle. “Then I will endeavor to not provoke your ire.”

“You have made a poor start, if that is so.”

Another chuckle. Then, “If I may ask—”

“You may not.”

In keeping with his previous actions, he disregarded her wish. “If my mortality poses a danger to these people, won’t yours? I am not the only human here.”

“I am a daughter of Flemeth. My humanity may not be as complete as you assume.” Morrigan willed herself to remain calm. Her frustration with this man for not allowing her to even momentarily enjoy this triumph, to take in this place that would save her, threatened to overwhelm her. He simply would not stop pressing.

He moved about the room, tracing stones in the walls with his long fingers, his feet carrying him quickly, yet they made not a sound on the floor upon which he had tread. “So Flemeth really is your mother?”

She gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

“ _The_ Flemeth? Flemeth of legend? Flemeth the Devourer of Men? Flemeth, Mother of Witches? Flemeth the Demon-Touched, Who Dwells in the Mists?”

“If I do not interrupt, have you enough names to go on for some time?”

“I excel at the recitation of lists.”

“Evidently so. I wish for you to cease.” If he were to cease breathing, she would not complain overmuch.

He stopped and studied her for a moment, like he had just studied the walls. “So be it, my lady.”

Morrigan had never once felt this compelled to kill Malcolm. Yet he allowed her the luxury of silence—a luxury that Malcolm had rarely been inclined to at all—as much as it could be granted with a curious infant around. Though Morrigan had brushed it aside before, she could not fathom why the eluvian in Arlathan sat in a dark corner of a library that seemed little used. There were three tables, but two were covered with cloth, and the third littered with books. Four were open, and parchment was scattered across every available surface, with a quill resting in an inkwell. No dust, Morrigan noticed. So someone had to be using this place, if not the eluvian itself.

Then Nathaniel said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

She nearly jumped at the suddenness of the question, and had she jumped, she would have set him on fire. “I did so. Just because you found no satisfaction in my answer does not mean I did not give you one.” When she glanced out the corner of her eye, she caught him rolling his eyes. Good. Let him become frustrated. Let him understand her frustration at his presence.

“So that’s how it’s going to be.”

Yes, it was. But she didn’t bother telling him that; it was high time he put his mind to some use before it began to rot. Instead, she returned to studying the curious table, and she did her best to ignore that Nathaniel did the same.

A door opened and closed, and then a yelp sounded from behind them, followed by the resonating smacks of several books hitting the stone floor.

Morrigan slowly turned to find the source.

An elven woman knelt there, her dark eyebrows still quirked upward in surprise, and she was gathering the books she’d dropped. But she was barely able to keep her attention off the newcomers long enough to properly stack the books in her free arm. Eventually, she gave up and shoved the stack aside before standing. “You’re here,” she said. Slowly, like they were wild animals, she approached the three humans. Once close enough, she reached out and poked Morrigan’s arm with her index finger. Her eyebrows raised higher in surprise. “You’re real.” Then she extended her hand once more.

“Touch me again and you will find yourself short a hand.” Morrigan moved both her arms to surround Cianán, just in case this woman got any ideas about grabbing the boy.

The elf drew back. “Are you always so irritable?” 

Nathaniel snorted.

Morrigan ignored him.

“I had not foreseen you being so... this,” said the woman.

Had Morrigan not been carrying Cianán, she would have crossed her arms. As such, she settled for narrowing her eyes in warning. “This, what?”

“Bristly? No. Prickly? No, not that. Blessed Creators, this is not going how it should. I haven’t even introduced myself.” The woman ran a hand over her flushed cheeks before meeting their eyes again. “My name is Airmid.”

Morrigan did not give her name. If this Airmid had known she was coming, she would also know who she was, and that included her name.

“Nathaniel,” said the man Morrigan considered an interloper. “And how should it be going?”

The woman startled, as if she’d just noticed Nathaniel’s presence. “You are a surprise, for one.” She raised an eyebrow, as if daring Nathaniel to question her. He did not. Morrigan had to give him credit for that. Then the woman returned her attention to Morrigan, her gaze occasionally flicking down to the quiet Cianán. “We—I—had thought you would look like one of the People. Instead, you are nearly as much shemlenas he is.” When this woman said ‘shemlen,’ it did not sound as it was said on Thedas; here, it was not a slur or epithet. It was merely a statement of fact, for compared to the elves, they were indeed short-lived. The woman waved her hand, brushing a thought aside. “Well, not quite as much as he, being a daughter of Valoel as you are.

Confusion made Morrigan’s brow furrow before she could stop it from showing. Her mother was Flemeth, not some mythological god living in tales told by the Dalish. Granted, she stood in a place of myth right at that moment, and her mother was certainly not a mere human being. Yet, she could not bring herself to accept that the woman here was truly referring to her mother. And if she were indeed referring to Flemeth by another name, then Morrigan’s presence here would have to be in keeping with Flemeth’s plans. Though she now stood before an elf in the city of Arlathan, she still felt confident that this was not the future Flemeth had foreseen. It could not be, for she had not allowed Flemeth to possess her body, and she had not given the child with the soul of an Old God over to her, either. 

And yet, doubt crept in. Memories of lessons given to Morrigan to master the language of the elves. She had been instructed by her mother, informed that knowing the language of the People was important, even if it did not seem so due to their low standing in the world. “ _They stand low at the present,”_ Flemeth had said. _“But it is not the past, nor will it be the future.”_ Still, Morrigan did admit that knowing the language was helpful. She would be remiss in not being grateful for the education Flemeth had provided her, however harshly it might have been given. Yet she’d given it, as if she’d known.

No. This was the path not of Flemeth’s design. This was the path Morrigan had chosen.

“You must be mistaken,” she said out loud, “for my mother is Flemeth.”

The woman’s blinked in surprise at the vehemence of the denial. “Is that what she calls herself now? For one who claimed names were useless, she certainly liked to change hers after her argument with Samandirel.” Her outward surprise had faded, replaced by a vague sort of amusement.

“What?” Morrigan asked. There were too many indications being given that led to Flemeth truly being this mythological god. Too many hints that Morrigan, in her attempt to break free of Flemeth’s plans for her, had instead blundered straight into them. Her stomach dropped and began to roil at realizing all she had given up had been for nothing. She had given up a son for nothing. She had given up strength—and weakness—that was love, for nothing. 

“You don’t know?” Now the woman sounded amused and curious. “Has the story been lost to Thedas in these hundreds of years? The fight between Samandirel and Valoel, the plight of Valoel’s first children, and Valoel’s quest for vengeance?”

Morrigan swallowed in an effort to relieve the dryness of her throat. It didn’t help. “It was a legend told by the Dalish. A moral fable told to the wayward and the children. Nothing more.” Were it only true, that it was nothing more. Yet the evidence presented could not be denied, and Morrigan suspected only more evidence would manifest over time.

“The Dalish?”

Morrigan felt some triumph in confusing the woman as she had been confused. “Your descendants left on Thedas fell far from the heights your people once enjoyed.”

The woman flinched, and her look darkened for a moment before she seemed to shake off her visible dismay. “Forgive me. I had not truly prepared myself for your appearance, even though I had expected it.”

“You were expecting me?” asked Morrigan. If she were to believe she’d been expected, she herself would have expected more of a greeting, more than a disused corner of a library. And certainly more a greeting party than a startled elf.

“We were. I mean, _I_ expected you. The others expected me to be disappointed.” A soft tinkling noise came from the eluvian, and the woman’s eyes widened in alarm as she looked over Morrigan’s shoulder. “Oh! Oh, no.” She looked at Morrigan again. “Did you have someone on the other end destroy that one?”

“Of course I did. My mother would have chased me here, otherwise. ‘Twas best to prevent such an occurrence.”

“Oh.” Now the woman sounded disappointed. “She would have been of great help. I’ve had such hard time keeping this one intact, with the eluvians on Thedas being destroyed one by one as they have been. There can’t be many left. Not with pieces falling off.” She gestured toward the eluvian. “See for yourself.”

Morrigan turned, and though she’d heard the sound of glass shattering and falling, was surprised to see half of the eluvian’s glass on the stone floor beneath it. The other half barely remained in its metal frame, cracks stretching through it, threatening to push the rest of the glass out. She had not thought the eluvians so tied together that they relied on one another to remain intact. “Mother could not be allowed to follow,” she said quietly, biting down on her rising fear.

“What had you planned on to keep your mother from finding another eluvian?” asked the elf.

Morrigan looked at her, afraid to give the answer, and even more afraid to hear what the woman would say in return. “Those I left behind have been tasked to find and destroy them all.”

“Creators!” The elf ran in a small, panicked circle. “We would be trapped if they were all gone, no portals left to us to Thedas, left to forever stagnate in _Setheneran_.” 

Morrigan stared at her, unable to comprehend her misstep.

“Can’t you build another?” asked Nathaniel.

“Not without the right materials.” The woman ran from one bookshelf to another, her fingers drifting over spines and checking titles. “And the right spells that could be cast effectively.” Her hands dropped to her sides in defeat as she turned her look of desperation towards the others. “No, I couldn’t.”

Cianán started to cry, and Morrigan stroked his head to comfort him as she could not be comforted. Then her mind latched onto the meaning of one of the other woman’s statements, and her other hand curled into a fist as she stared Airmid down. “What do you mean about casting spells effectively? Can you not do so? Are you not a strong enough mage?”

“I’m one of Arlathan’s strongest,” said Airmid, her mouth twisting at Morrigan’s slight. “In fact, it was my spellcraft that—we need not go into that now. To answer your question, magic here is not impossible, but is very difficult. Setheneran, by its very nature, is far removed from the Beyond. As a human mage, you know the Beyond is from where we draw our power. The connection to the Beyond from here is a mere tendril, the thinnest of thin threads, if even that.”

“You cannot reach the Fade from here?” Morrigan had not thought her dread could grow stronger, and yet it did. No magic? She would be powerless, and she would have no method for teaching her son, of preparing him for what was to come.

“We can touch the Beyond through that tenuous thread, but it takes focus, concentration beyond that which many of us are able to maintain. Only the strongest of us can draw power from it still. We no longer enter _uthenera_. It takes too much work.” The offense at being insulted in a backhanded manner faded from Airmid’s lips as she took stock of Morrigan once again. Then she said, “You are powerful, as a daughter of Valoel. Try to use your magic now. Summon a wisp.”

The easiest of spells. Normally, Morrigan could summon a spell wisp without conscious thought or effort. She would need one, and one would appear. This time, it took her an unbearably long time to get a wisp to appear. Enough time that a hundred slow heartbeats, and what felt like an entire lifetime of wasted rebellion, had gone by before it winked into existence.

Seeing the wisp finally appear did not bring Morrigan hope.

The elf, however, seemed quite pleased, enough that she clapped her hands with joy. “This is good!”

“I am not so convinced as you,” said Morrigan. She wasn’t convinced at all, and turned her eyes towards the betraying eluvian. The eluvian that had changed the course of her entire life, now probably not for the better, just as it had to Líadan.

 _I was wrong_ , she thought as she stared at the remains of the eluvian, despairing at having her magic weakened. _So very wrong._

**Meghan**

****Arl Eamon was beside himself on his return from the Landsmeet. Meghan had a hard time comprehending such a thing from a member of the nobility in front of a guest, for her father had not been one for grand displays of emotion, and neither had Starkhaven nobles. In private, she suspected there were such things, but in front of guests, in front of the public, they did not allow their baser emotions to show.

And show them he did. His sentences ran one into the other, jammed up against each other in a river of rage, like the Minanter swollen and roiling with spring rains. There was a new Theirin heir, she managed to gather, the rumored bastard having been granted legitimacy by the Landsmeet. Meghan thought it prudent, given the Fereldan crown’s lack of Theirin heirs, and in the wake of a nasty civil war caused in part by the lack of legitimate heirs, it made the most sense. Not a trend to continue in the future, to be sure, but appropriate for the time being, at least until the line once again had a healthy number of legitimate heirs. Namely, more than one. 

Meghan, during a pause in one of Eamon’s rants over the evening meal, said as much.

“Normally, I would agree with you, Lady Vael,” he said after a long pause, where Meghan had thought he’d turn his anger onto her, but he was addressing her levelly instead, “but in this case, I cannot. Prince Cáel brings more magic into the line of Calenhad.” He stabbed his piece of roasted venison with his eating knife with more force than was truly necessary.

“More?” She’d not heard of Calenhad’s line containing any magic. Not a single generation had produced a known mage, not even rumored.

Eamon grimaced. Apparently, he’d said more than he’d meant to in his anger. “Malcolm has magic in his blood from his mother—this is known, I gather, due to the Chantry’s untrue accusations against him in the past year?”

She nodded. The Vaels of Starkhaven generally were kept apprised of all Chantry rumors and declarations, due to their years of close connection. It had come as a surprise, to hear that one Ferelden’s recently legitimized bastard princes was being declared an apostate, and even more a surprise when that declaration was withdrawn and stricken from record. However, the information it was based on, that the prince’s mother had been a mage, had not been recanted.

“Just that influence alone would have been bad enough, should Malcolm have legitimate issue and Alistair not, but considering Cáel’s birth mother was a powerful mage—and an apostate, no less—well. One cannot deny that Calenhad’s line will be made rife with magic should Cáel or his descendants inherit.” Eamon took the bite of venison from his knife and chewed vigorously, his anger enough that he seemed to take the potential of magic in Ferelden’s royal line personally.

“It would be wrong,” said Isolde, projecting a calm in stark contrast to her husband’s disquiet, eating primly and delicately, careful to speak only when she did not have food in her mouth. The picture of nobility, as Orlesians often were. “Men in my family who possessed magic were sinful. To imagine a mage in power? Or just a mage within a royal family, even if sent to the Circle? It is too much. Too much chance for sin.” A flicker of something else, sadness and fear, if Meghan had to name it, passed through Isolde’s eyes. “For destruction.”

Were the rumors true, then? Meghan had wondered, as had the rest of the Vaels and the others within the circles of Free Marcher nobility. Rumored that the son of the Arl of Redcliffe had been possessed of a demon during the Blight, saved only by the actions of several Circle mages from Kinloch Hold, and one rumor held that it was an apostate who had gone into the Fade to kill the demon, thereby freeing the boy. But before the mages were able to intervene, the town and castle of Redcliffe had suffered many lives lost due to the demon’s undead attackers who ravaged them. It had been mages who’d saved the arlessa’s son from certain death at the hands of the templars, but Isolde remained bitter towards mages, even still. 

Meghan understood. She felt much the same way about mages, even though she knew her rescuer, Marian Hawke, was an apostate mage. Hawke had been nothing but kind and helpful, visiting her quite a few times during Meghan’s stay in Kirkwall, knowing that Meghan had felt cooped up due to her having to hide. Varric, as far as Meghan knew, had not shared with Hawke who Meghan was, or who Meghan’s brother was, but Meghan hadn’t been—and still wasn’t—so sure that Hawke hadn’t figured it out. She was a sharp one. If her expedition was successful, and she able to retake the title the Amells had lost only two generations ago, she would go far.

But it was easy to forget Hawke was a mage because she hid it so well. Out of necessity, yes, but no robes, no stave, no flashiness. She engendered trust despite what she was. So Meghan chose to ignore that one of her saviors was a mage, much as Isolde seemed to be doing regarding her own son.

A son who also happened to be a mage. Meghan hoped the child Isolde would soon give birth to would not turn out to be the same. She knew Eamon had a younger brother who could assume the arling should the next child be disinherited due to magic, but it the personal impact of a second potential heir being a mage would be difficult on both the arl and arlessa, from what Meghan could see. 

“And we’ve already seen what destruction an apostate close to the royal family can wreak,” said Isolde, after she had considered and rejected another bite of bread. “It was Morrigan’s actions that brought the Chantry’s march on Highever.”

Meghan raised an eyebrow at the hypocrisy, too much even for her. “I had gathered it was the Chantry’s decisions that brought the march, Lady Isolde,” she said, doing her best to keep rancor from her voice lest she offend her hosts. She still lacked coin; she would have nowhere to go should she anger them too much. “Forgive me, I had just thought this Morrigan to be the one who helped the princes through the Blight, who was the mother of the new prince, and died in the Battle of Highever.”

Eamon inclined his head. “That much is true. She did help more than she did hinder.” He shifted his heavy look from Meghan to Isolde, the pain of memory tumbling in a wave across his face. “And she did save our boy from that demon. As much as we may want to, we cannot deny that.” He placed his hands flat on the table, his eating knife skittering away. “Would that she were not a mage, I would have little argument with her or her being Prince Cáel’s mother. And yet, she is not. She is a mage. Malcolm’s mother was a mage. I fear that Cáel or his descendants will be the same. Lady Vael, I have seen with my own eyes what a mage can do to a line.”

She nodded in recognition of Eamon’s point. “True, yes. The Vaels have been blessed by the Maker so far. We’ve not had a mage born to the line yet.”

“It is a curse.” Isolde’s voice was so bitter that Meghan was surprised Isolde was not spitting in disgust. Had Isolde not been a lady, perhaps she would have done just that. “The hidden ones in my family, the ones kept from the Chantry, one could only imagine, in nightmares, what they would have done with the power of a throne.”

“Which is why I am concerned with this current branch of the Theirin line,” said Eamon.

Meghan frowned. She was missing something. “I can understand your qualms with Prince Malcolm and his son, my lord, but Queen Anora had no magi among her ancestors, even common as they were until Teyrn Loghain, and by all known accounts, King Alistair has none, either. Provided they have an heir, the line will be directly safe from magic for at least a generation. More safe, if they have more than one child. Unless you know more about King Alistair’s mother than is common knowledge.”

“Whether I do or do not possess such knowledge, I cannot say. What I will say is that if we had another Theirin alternative to Alistair or Malcolm, it would be prudent to use them, lest the line become sullied with magic.” Eamon lifted his hands from the table and shrugged. “Alas, we’ve none. So we must pray to the Maker that the line will not suffer overmuch from the curse.”

As a former royal, Meghan was aghast at the fine line Eamon was treading, nearly deviating into treason, at least by Starkhaven standards. Even the mere contemplation of finding another heir to usurp the current monarch’s throne was tantamount to treason. And it had not gone unnoticed by her in the manner with which Eamon addressed both the King and the Prince. Arl Eamon rarely, if ever, using their titles, calling them by their given names only. With Eamon’s history with the two men, she could understand the first-name basis on a personal level, and calling them such in private. But his repeated non-use of their titles in public, or with others who were not privy to the same privilege, was as much an indication of his feelings of their worthiness of the line as his vague notions of treason.

And yet the man considered himself a great supporter of the Theirin line. 

Eamon cleared his throat, possibly having realized the meaning of his words. “Enough of that.” He folded his hands together on the table in front of him. “Lady Vael, have you considered your petition of asylum? Or contacting your brother for intervention with the Chantry? Perhaps even requesting an audience with the Divine while she is in Denerim? I believe Her Perfection has plans to stay another week to wrap up various matters.”

“I fear that contacting my brother or publicly requesting an audience with the Divine will draw undue attention to my survival, my lord,” said Meghan. “I fear that an audience with the King would do the same, even here in Ferelden. Starkhaven is no small trade partner of the merchants here. I am certain word would find its way back to my family’s murderers.”

“That is... understandable. A wise precaution, to keep quiet. However, I’m certain I can get you a private audience with Alistair, my frustration with his brother and nephew aside. I still fostered Alistair as a boy, and I was his chancellor, for a time. I resigned because I wanted to spend time with my wife, here in Denerim, while we waited for the arrival of our child.” With those words, he shared a warm smile with Isolde, which was returned brilliantly. Pregnancy well suited the arlessa. 

Meghan found his shift almost painful to follow. From treason to claiming to have the King’s ear within seconds of one another.

Isolde turned a more serious gaze onto Meghan. “You may also consider requesting a private audience with the Divine. I have heard that Her Perfection will sometimes grant them, to give her people the opportunity to speak directly to her.” She paused for a moment, mulling over an idea. “Perhaps I will make the request for you, using my name, so that Her Perfection may be more inclined to grant such an audience.

However abrupt the shift, she could not deny that a private audience with the King or the Divine would the only opportunities she would have at asylum. She did not hold much hope for the Chantry’s intervention. With the information she’d been given, that she had been declared dead along with the rest of her family, save Sebastian, she was a non-entity. In fact, she would require Isolde’s assistance to request audience with the Divine, public or private. And in the end, all she could hope for was simple asylum. If she pressed publicly for restoration of her line, she would be called a pretender. There was the slight hope that Sebastian would bolster her claim of being Meghan Vael, and therefore dispute the declaration of her death. Or he might even make a claim for Starkhaven’s throne himself. 

“I would be most grateful for any assistance you might provide. Audiences with His Majesty or Her Perfection would be helpful in making my requests for asylum,” she said out loud.

Eamon smiled and sat back, seemingly pleased with himself for the first time that day.

Meeting the Divine, something she’d imagined only Sebastian would do, out of all of them. An image of her brother came to Meghan’s mind, of his smile and bright eyes. Then the idea that she was dead to him hit her hard, and she fought the sorrow from showing on her face.

It wouldn’t be proper.


	38. Chapter 38

“Andraste was more than simply the wife of a warlord, after all—she was also the betrothed of the Maker. Enraptured by the melodic sound of her voice as she sang to the heavens for guidance, the Maker Himself appeared to Andraste and proposed that she come with Him, leaving behind the flawed world of humanity. In her wisdom, Andraste pleaded with the Maker to return to His people and create paradise in the world of men. The Maker agreed, but only if all of the world would turn away from the worship of false gods and accept the Maker’s divine commandments.

Armed with the knowledge of the one true god, Andraste began the Exalted Marches into the weakened Imperium. One of the Maker’s commandments, that magic should serve man rather than rule over him, was as honey to the souls of the downtrodden of Tevinter, who lived under the thumbs of the magisters.”

—from _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ , by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****The conversation began innocently enough.

The problem was, their conversations never stayed that way. “So,” Nuala said at breakfast the day after the Landsmeet had officially concluded, “do you recall me mentioning my cousin?”

“Vaguely,” Malcolm said around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Yes,” said Líadan. She’d finished eating and held Cáel on her lap, partly paying attention to the conversation, and mostly attempting to keep questing little hands from grabbing eating knives, leftover food, or anything else from the table in front of them. Already this morning, they’d caught Cáel gnawing on a piece of candle wax. Where he’d found the wax, no one had any idea. But since right before two of the boy’s bottom teeth had come in, he’d been chewing on anything and everything. 

Malcolm stopped eating, Nuala’s words sinking in. “Wait, you mean Shianni?”

“No.” Nuala fixed him with a curious look. “What’s with you and Shianni?”

“Oh, come on. You know already. Don’t make me say it out loud again. I already have a meeting with Alistair later, and then apparently Seneschal—or is it Steward?—Warrick told me about a stash of stuff stolen from the compound that some of the maids found in the palace.”

“It’s Steward,” said Kennard from his post near the doorway. “Warrick is the Palace Steward. Not my boss, but I get orders from him often enough. Captain Somerled says we have to listen to him, or the household will fall apart.”

“Right.” Malcolm gave Kennard a hesitant nod, and then continued to the others. “Steward Warrick wants me to come look at the things they found. You know what that means? Dust, that’s what it means. And sneezing. And paperwork.” He motioned to Nuala with the hand holding the half-eaten biscuit. “Now, what were you were you saying about your not-Shianni cousin?”

“She’s getting married today.” Nuala’s slightly amused demeanor hadn’t changed, entirely unbothered by Malcolm’s attempt at distraction.

“Today?” asked Líadan. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“I only found out last night. Neither of you were available at the time, celebrating the end of the days-long Landsmeet as you were, and I wasn’t about to interrupt.”

Malcolm coughed, and then found something fascinating to study in the grain of the wooden table. Kennard let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

Líadan rolled her eyes at the both of them before addressing Nuala. “What was this cousin’s name again? We can’t keep letting Malcolm refer to her as Not-Shianni.”

“Rhian,” said Nuala. “My cousin is... well, I probably shouldn’t tell you this.”

“But you will,” said Malcolm. “Right? Because those kinds of statements usually lead to the best stories.”

Líadan wondered, sometimes, just how short Malcolm’s memory could be, or if he had some sort of selective amnesia. “Except when they don’t. Remember Anders telling you about knickerweasels?”

Malcolm scowled and pushed away the rest of his breakfast. “How could I? It’s permanently etched into my mind.”

“I suspect this could be much the same situation.” As Líadan spoke, Cáel leaned over and dragged the remaining part of Malcolm’s biscuit toward him. She made no move to take it from him. Nuala had explained he was old enough now to try things occasionally if he wanted to, but that he most likely wouldn’t actively eat anything. Her words proved to be true. Cáel mostly played with it, squishing it in his small fists and dropping the pieces alternately on the table or the floor.

“She’s trained like I am,” Nuala said after observing Cáel for a moment.

“Here’s me being not surprised.” Malcolm leaned an arm on the table, and then rested his head in the crook of his elbow. “Why must you all be so deadly?” He sounded almost convincingly forlorn, Líadan thought. She would have even been convinced if she hadn’t already known he preferred challenges. Malcolm lifted his head to regard Nuala. “Wait, what’s the big deal? The law about elves not being allowed to bear arms was rescinded over a year ago. No more of that ‘having swords means dying upon them’ and such.”

“So it is, and yet many of the elves still choose to remain unarmed.”

Nuala’s statement caused Malcolm to sit up straight. “Why would they choose that?”

“It’s easier. Openly carrying a weapon in the city, if you’re an elf, invites confrontations from those who believe we should still not be allowed to bear arms. Getting into a confrontation or argument out in the city leads to being late for work, and from there, everything goes downhill. Easier to not carry them.”

“Isn’t right.”

Nuala gave him a soft smile. “I never said it was. It’s just the way it is.”

Líadan disagreed, but kept her thoughts to herself. Frustration propelled through her, tensing her muscles. How could they choose not to exercise their right to defend themselves? More and more of her city-dwelling cousins’ rights had been returned to them, and she could not understand, not even a little, how they could choose to ignore their presence. To allow themselves to be controlled by the unenlightened population of humans that had yet to see elves just as much a person as they were, to allow their oppression to continue, just as it had for hundreds of years, and not stand up and start shouting, or well up and fight _back_. Instead, they kept their heads down, and went on with whatever scrap of life was left to them. If her people continued this way, down this path, they would never again restore _Elvhenan_.

“As I was saying,” said Nuala, after she cast a look in Líadan’s direction that told her she had more than an inkling of where Líadan’s thoughts were, “she’s trained as I am, and has always been far better at it. She also is not like most, and as soon as it was allowed for her to do so, she carried weapons openly.”

“So, they were hidden before, am I right?” Malcolm’s eyes widened, wary as they glanced to either side, as if expecting Rhian to leap out from the shadows. “And she was never caught, so they were hidden _well_.” He clapped his hands on the table. “Right. Shianni has been deposed as the most frightening of your relatives, Nuala. Let’s just make sure I never meet her so that I never accidentally piss her off, and end up missing limbs. I very much like my limbs where they are: attached.” He nodded in emphasis. Then he asked, “Are you asking us for permission? Because you really don’t need permission. It’s more like, we just need to know where you are, and consequently, where Cáel is. If Cáel can even go. Since it’s in the Elven Quarter, I’m not sure how welcome a human baby will be.”

Nuala considered for a moment, her fingers drumming on the table, and drawing Cáel’s attention away from the doughy bits of biscuit he had left clinging to his fingers. “Cáel should be fine. There are enough elven wet nurses where his presence wouldn’t cause a stir because it’s seen often.” She tilted her head toward Kennard. “He, however, would be a problem.” 

“I knew you were eventually going to try to get rid of me,” said Kennard. “No matter. I’m going in with you.”

“You won’t be welcome.”

Kennard didn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes. “Really? I never would have thought. However,” he said quickly, cutting off a retort from Nuala, who was rising to her feet, “it won’t matter if I’m not seen. And I won’t be.”

Nuala narrowed her eyes at Kennard. “Oh, you’re one of those, are you?”

Kennard narrowed his eyes in return. “Now, just what do you mean by that?”

“Sneaky. Hiding in the shadows.”

“Oh, you mean effective. Yes.” Ignoring Nuala’s outrage as she bristled and crossed her arms, Kennard turned to Líadan. “It would be good if you went, as well. You would be able to stay close to the two of them, closer than I’ll be able to, and therefore respond quickly, should anything happen.”

Líadan frowned. Even though Denerim wasn’t Highever, and Denerim had an Elven Quarter instead of an alienage, she wasn’t terribly eager to return to part of a city heavily populated by elves anytime soon. But this was for Cáel, and for Nuala, who had been quite good for him, so she had an obligation to set aside her own fears. Yet, the way Kennard approached the situation, his absolute refusal to stay outside the Elven Quarter, meant there was more to the trip than at first glance. “You say that like you expect something to happen.”

He shrugged a shoulder, but his posture didn’t relax. “It’s possible. More than possible. With the Landsmeet just having ended, most of the nobles haven’t yet left for their bannorns. At least half will stay, remaining in their city estates for the rest of autumn and through the winter. Some of those who will stay will be the younger lords and ladies, and a certain population of them can get bored. And when they get bored, they tend to get into trouble. Last winter was a little less stressful. With it being so cold, it kept the majority shut inside their warm estates. But with the weather mild for now, I’m not sure. Guard-Captain Kylon passed word along through Captain Somerled to be extra alert for a while when walking through the city.”

“But what in particular about the Elven Quarter makes you nervous?” Malcolm asked. 

“Nothing specific.” Kennard shifted his weight, finally betraying some of his reticence on the subject. “Rumors, really. But I’d rather safe than sorry. Good maxim for a guard, if he wants to keep his job by keeping the people he’s responsible for alive.” He leveled a look over at Nuala, whose arms had returned to her sides. “That includes you. Not just Cáel. On orders from the King and Queen, in case you were wondering. So if I can’t be near enough to you and the babe to respond quickly enough for a threat, it’d be best if Líadan were there. Besides, that means you can have her hold him so you can interact better with your family you’ve been looking forward to seeing more of.”

“You don’t mind?” Nuala asked Líadan, indirectly conceding Kennard’s point.

“No. It means more time with Cáel, less time being dragged into a dusty storage room, and a chance to get to see how city elf bondings go.” Líadan resolved to tamp down her apprehensiveness regarding elven quarters or alienages. Denerim was not Highever. They knew her here and accepted her for who she was, as far as she knew. She mostly believed it to be true; Shianni would have told her otherwise, forthright as she was. “And it will be nice getting out into the city without Thierry trailing right behind me.” Since the Landsmeet’s pronouncement on its first day, that the Chantry may not force their non-Chantry related policies on Fereldan citizens, Thierry’s company had stopped being a requirement for Líadan. She hadn’t realized just how chained she’d felt until she was free of the supervision. Not that she didn’t like Thierry as a person, mostly. When he wasn’t being a templar.

“Yeah, but Thierry would’ve been another sword on our side, just in case,” said Kennard.

“Also a human,” said Nuala, “who can’t hide like you can. His presence would bring arguments.”

“What about Sigrun?” asked Malcolm. “She’d probably like to see the ceremony since it’s another surfacer experience. And, as an added bonus, she’s not human. Being a dwarf makes her neutral, doesn’t it?”

Nuala nodded. “I think that could work, if Sigrun wants to go.”

From a corner where she’d been tearing at her breakfast with Gunnar, Revas let out a bark. Cáel looked over immediately and clapped on seeing the dogs. Sometimes, Líadan thought Cáel preferred the two mabari over anyone else who cared for him. “And Revas. Mabari tend to discourage opportunists.”

Malcolm scowled. “Only if they’ve half a brain, which many don’t. Take Gunnar, too. Getting out will be more exciting than staying with me. I’ll be safe enough at the palace. Shouldn’t meet with too much danger in a storeroom, aside from possibly possessed dust bunnies.”

Kennard swung his head around to give Malcolm a look of mild alarm. “Is that a thing? Can that really happen?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe? I think technically demons can possess anything. I’ll have to ask one of the resident ex-Templars. Oh, or Wynne.” His face lit up and he grinned. “Yes! Wynne, definitely. She’s over the questions about griffons. This’ll make a good substitute.”

To cover her annoyance with Malcolm over his insistence in aggravating the mage helping her, Líadan asked Revas to find Sigrun. Then, her annoyance still not abating, she handed Cáel over to Nuala, and accompanied her mabari. By the time she returned to the dining hall, Sigrun happily in tow, Malcolm had left for the palace. Líadan frowned, realizing that showed a great deal of insight on his part, since he’d yet to catch on that his bothering of Wynne tended to frustrate his wife. 

Then Nuala explained she’d told him to go for his own protection, and Malcolm’s timely departure made much more sense. “Would you mind carrying him?” Nuala asked, ruffling Cáel’s hair. “He just ate, so it would give me a break, allowing me more freedom with my family, and also give you more time to spend with him while you aren’t being a Warden.”

She didn’t mind at all, and immediately reached for the sling Nuala extended after Líadan’s nod of assent. Even though Cáel grew increasingly more active and aware and squirmy each day, it was still calming and warm and comforting to carry him against her chest. However, she was still thankful for the potions Wynne had given her. She’d tried to go a day without them to see if the pain had faded.

It hadn’t. And without the potions, having her son pressed against her front would have been agony. Instead, she worried about if, or more likely, _when_ , she would be hit by the stone wall of exhaustion that she ran into at least once a day. And the days where it was just once were the good days. She’d asked Wynne for a potion for that, but the elder mage claimed she hadn’t one to give.

Líadan figured it was sneaky ploy to force her to get more rest, but she could never pin Wynne down enough for a straight answer.

They left the compound to walk across a third of the city, taking the recently built Central Bridge that went across the Drakon River and connected to Market Street. The rebuilding that took place after the Blight and the Battle of Denerim allowed Anora and Alistair to make many improvements to the city’s infrastructure. “A lot bigger than a dwarven baby would be at that age,” Sigrun said as they strolled across the vast market to the Elven Quarter. Líadan tugged at one of Cáel’s questing hands that had been pulling at her arming jacket. She’d forgone the chest plate and brigandine that went with the newer Grey Warden armor for their foray into the city. There hadn’t been much trouble in Denerim lately, and between the two mabari, Kennard, and armed and armored Sigrun, they would be safe enough from any enterprising thieves. It also meant, in theory, that she wouldn’t tire as quickly as she had of late.

“They do end up almost twice your height,” said Líadan. Though she did have a hard time imagining having to one day look up at Cáel. But already, the Theirin line showed strong in him, and his shoulders hinted at how broad they would be once he was grown, broad even for typical human males, like his father and his uncle. 

“True.” Sigrun tapped at her chin. “What about elf babies? They grow at the same rate, and then slow down, or are they more like dwarf babies and just stay smaller? Well, not quite as small, but you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure. I never really compared, or had a chance to.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, you will, right?”

Líadan grimaced. “Can we please not talk about that?”

“But, _babies_ , and they’re so cute—”

“How about we discuss the fact that I saw you stealing Kennard’s coin pouch? I bet he’d like to know who stole it. You really should stop stealing things from other Wardens, including my boot dagger, which I would like to have _back_ , thank you.”

“Soon as we stop. And it’s just a game. It’s so much fun taking Thierry’s stuff! He gets all huffy and starts spouting stuff about stealing being a sin and lying about it even worse.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t lie about it! I’m very up front and honest.”

“When asked.”

“Well. Can’t make it too easy.”

Líadan began to smile, but her amusement faded away, quieting the laughter from her lips when she realized they’d reached their destination.

The walls were still up.

She stood outside what should have been the Elven Quarter, and yet it still looked like an alienage. There were signs of change, such as most of the walls having been torn partway down. But halfway down they remained, as if the inhabitants hadn’t yet decided on finishing the job. It was still isolated, shabby, a cage, evoking the same feelings of anger and despair she’d felt on first seeing it. Even now, she felt the same as her younger, inexperienced self who’d been far more Dalish than Grey Warden, and had known practically nothing about the city elves and the humans they lived among.

Except they still didn’t live _among_ them, not really. Nearby, yes, but they were shut away.

The gate still stood, though the iron portcullis had been removed. City guards even still loitered outside the gate. So much had changed for Líadan over the past two years and more, that it left her astonished to find the elves of Denerim had only taken a half-step forward in regaining their autonomy. The Dalish in her raged in frustration at the thought. Here the door had been opened, literally and metaphorically, and yet they hid behind the walls, refusing to tear them down completely, to step into their rightful places in the world.

“Glaring at those walls isn’t going to make them come down,” said Nuala.

Ah, so she’d been that obvious in her staring. “It’s an alienage,” she said, keeping her tone mild.

“So it is.”

The mildness threatened to leave at hearing an equal mildness in Nuala’s tone. She should be outraged, too. She should be as aghast at the state of Denerim’s alienage as she was, because it wasn’t supposed to be an alienage at all. Instead, Nuala was unbothered, unconcerned with its lack of progress. “I thought it was the Elven Quarter, not a walled-off cage. The last time I was in Denerim, they’d just started the process of changing it over.” And, it seemed, that was as far as they’d gotten.

“Change can take a long time.”

Líadan finally turned to face the fellow elven woman standing beside her. “It has taken long enough as it is.” Her statement referred to the long, painful history of the _elvhen_ , not just the immediate plight of Denerim’s elves.

Nuala caught the reference. “Not all of us can be wandering Dalish, keeping distance from the shemlen, keeping to the old ways, and searching for a home.”

She bristled, hurt at being called on one of the more unsavory Dalish traits, and that Nuala was right, as well. As much as the Dalish would prefer—and said—otherwise, it was true. Not all city elves were suited for the Dalish way of life. However, the Dalish way of life was as temporary as the city elves’ way, marking time until they regained their homeland. “But bringing down the walls doesn’t mean they have to leave the city to join the Dalish,” she said after she regained some of her composure. “It just means you aren’t penned up like halla.” Creators, even the halla had more freedom of movement, free will, than city elves.

“Have you thought, perhaps, that those very same walls you see as a cage, also keep my people, the city elves, safe?”

“I... no.” Líadan had always viewed freedom as safety, not and containment as a danger. But this was not her way; this was not her home. As unfamiliar as it was to her, it was familiar to her city cousins. To them, it was home. “I hadn’t.”

“And so the walls remain, as long as we are threatened. Not enough has changed for us to forego their security.” Nuala sounded calm and patient, much like a Keeper instructing a clan member on one of the subtle points of tradition. She gently touched Líadan’s arm, and a brief smile warmed the nurse’s face. “Don’t feel bad for not realizing. It means you were lucky enough to be raised in a home that didn’t need walls to keep your way of life. It’s a good thing, not bad. Maybe one day it will be the same for the elves here.”

That one day would be a thousand years from now, at the current pace, Líadan thought. But she gave Nuala a half-nod, unwilling to become entrenched in an argument that would have no real resolution for either side. 

“So the city elves,” said Sigrun, recognizing the need for a change in subject, “do you stick together in the alienage? Help each other out? You aren’t fighting for scraps of food or a place to sleep?”

Nuala didn’t hide her dismay. “Maker, no! The _hahren_ sees to it that everyone has a roof over their head, and if he has any to spare, food in their belly. The fighting is out here, for those who can’t find proper work. But in the alienage, everyone helps others, or they’re shunned. Those elves, they always end up leaving. Good riddance to them. The fight is hard enough without your own people dragging you down.”

“Dusters could learn something from that.”

“Dusters?”

With that, as they walked into the alienage, Sigrun chatted with Nuala about dwarven society, touching on how the casteless lived in Orzammar, in conditions far worse than any elven alienage in a human city. After posting two guards at the gate, Kennard used the time to slip away into the shadows. He would guard them from a distance so as not to disturb the revelry. By the time Shianni greeted the rest of the group in front of the _vhenadahl_ , Sigrun was onto tales of her roguish past, before she’d joined the Legion of the Dead. “Or,” said Sigrun, “before I died. Though you surfacers have a hard time accepting that I’m dead.”

“It could be your ability to breathe that makes them think otherwise,” said Líadan. “Last time I saw, the undead didn’t breathe. Horrible rattling noises come from their chests, though, when they moan.”

A flash of bright red hair caught in the sun streaming through the _vhenadahl’s_ leaves, and Shianni was upon them. “Cousin!” she said, and wrapped Nuala in a tight hug, nearly knocking her over in her enthusiasm. Then she pushed away a little, hands on Nuala’s shoulders. “You really should visit more often. You might as well still be in Highever for however much we see you.”

“It’s such a production if it’s for a long visit.” Nuala took Shianni’s hands in hers and gave them a squeeze before letting go. Then she motioned toward Cáel. “Nurse to a prince means figuring out guards. He always has to have at least one with him, orders of the King, and there are only humans in the Royal Guard so far. They do have a few elven recruits, but their training will take a long while, I’m told.”

Shianni nodded. “And human guards wouldn’t be welcome here, not really. Especially not during a celebration.” She smiled over at Líadan and Sigrun. “So they sent you with Wardens, today, instead?” 

Before she could stop it, Líadan found herself enveloped in almost the same hug as Nuala had just been subjected to. “Good to see you, too?” Líadan said when Shianni stepped back, which made the other elf laugh.

“You forget how much we like you around here. I needed to remind you. There’s that whole ‘helped save us from slavers’ thing, and then... there was something else...” Shianni snapped her fingers as if she’d just remembered. “Right! Fighting the darkspawn, getting us to safety, and then battling the Archdemon. And I’ve personally seen you hold your own with the Landsmeet, which is by far the worst sort of battle out of any of them.” She extended a hand toward Cáel. “And this is the new prince! It’s nice to see him up close. I couldn’t get a good glimpse of him during the Landsmeet. Too many sodding nobles in the way, all taller than me aside from Alfstanna.” One of her fingers reached out to touch the tip of Cáel’s nose. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Líadan thought she saw movement in the shadows. Surely, Kennard knew Shianni wasn’t a threat. Probably just a natural reaction on his part, seeing someone not entirely familiar reach for Cáel without asking first. That was Shianni’s way, of course. Speak and act first, possibly apologize later.

Kennard apparently assumed the same as Líadan about Shianni being harmless to Cáel, and Shianni was able to tweak Cáel’s nose and run her fingers through his hair. “Amazing how that Theirin nose seems obvious even when they’re babies. Usually, babies’ noses are little buttons, all of them looking alike. But the royal family? Not them. I suppose it makes it easier to identify what children are truly of their blood. Cute, though.”

Nuala raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“You know me too well, cousin.” Shianni grinned again. “All of them. King, princes, queens, princesses, whichever.” She gave Líadan a pat on the shoulder. “You and Anora? Lucky women, I say.”

Líadan couldn’t stop a slight blush from rising to her cheeks, even though she knew she should be used to this. 

“Truly?” asked Nuala, her own view of Alistair and Malcolm made far more realistic from her every day interaction with them, and tinging her question with a tiny bit of disbelief.

“It’s the shoulders. Just... something about how broad they are.” Shianni glanced down at Sigrun. “Am I right?”

“Can’t say I’d argue with you. They taper nicely into some fine rear ends, too. And when they’re moving? Ancestors, you should see them fight.”

 _Am I hallucinating?_ Líadan could not believe she was hearing this conversation. Granted, thus far it was a much better visit than she’d had with Lanaya in the Highever Alienage, but _still_. The frank, honest appraisal of her bondmate, right in front of her, was a bit much to take in. Then again, not hearing condemnation of whom she chose to spend her life with, even if they didn’t know it was a life-long bond, was a pleasant change.

“Oh, I rather like you. I don’t think I’ve met you before, though,” Shianni said to Sigrun, and looked as if she was going to offer a hug to the dwarf, her arms already extending to do so.

Sigrun took a quick step backward, and glanced down at Shianni’s chest before looking her in the eye again. “As nice as hugs for greetings are, not so sure you’d want to do that, considering where my face will end up.”

Shianni considered Sigrun’s warning, a flush that hadn’t been there before lightly coloring her cheeks. “Not sure if it would be a bad thing.”

“Cousin!” said Nuala. “It’s not even mid-morning. How far into your cups are you?”

“I’m not! Not far enough. Just two. Blame Soris. He somehow found—”

“He should not have,” said a dark blonde-haired woman walking toward them from the opposite side of the _vhenadahl._ “It will make you less alert. It obviously already has.” Unlike most of the other of the alienage’s inhabitants, this woman’s countenance was determined. Compared to the relaxed openness of the revelers, it made her seem angry. Her frown became a scowl that she shifted from Shianni to Nuala. “Cousin, there’s a shem following you. I’m the only one who’s spotted him so far, but he might be—”

Nuala sighed, a weary sigh that often accompanied interactions with trying, yet loved, family members. “That’s Kennard. Leave him be. He won’t disturb anything.”

Only then did Líadan realize they were speaking to the cousin Nuala had told them about. There wasn’t much resemblance between the three, not with Shianni and Nuala pale where Rhian was dark, or the stark differences in their attitudes, but they did share the same eye color. They were a brown so light they appeared almost copper. But that was where the similarities ended, at first impression. Whereas Nuala and Shianni tended toward seeming partly amused, even when angry, Rhian did not appear amused in any way whatsoever. 

She reminded Líadan of someone, but she couldn’t quite place who.

Rhian jerked her arm in the direction of an alley that Líadan assumed where Kennard was hiding. “But he’s a shem, here in the Alienage, when there’s to be a wedding. You know the only shem we let in here for celebrations is Mother Boann. I know Valendrian used to let the Warden Commander in here before he was killed, but that’s long past. The shem in the shadows clearly isn’t Mother Boann.”

“Of course not.” Nuala still sounded impossibly patient—though Líadan was starting to see where Nuala had developed her vast stores of patience. “He hasn’t nearly enough curves to pass for Mother Boann.”

Líadan couldn’t _wait_ to tell Kennard that he’d been compared to a Chantry priest. He’d love that.

“He’s Cáel’s guard,” Nuala continued to say. “If you want to be rid of him so badly, I’ll have to go, too.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Rhian would argue, her mouth even opening slightly, before she pressed her lips into a thin line. Then she relented, her crossed arms relaxing just enough to fall to her sides. “He’s really all right?” she asked quietly, the change in tone so drastic that she almost sounded like another person entirely. 

“He is. He has to be, as much as he’s around the Wardens. They really don’t see anyone differently, no matter if it’s elf, dwarf, mage, or whatever. It’s a refreshing way of thinking, cousin.” The rebuke at the end marked the only break in Nuala’s patience, but it was break enough to make Rhian flinch despite how softly it was delivered. Nuala gave her cousin a moment to recover before asking, “So, should I do introductions, or has all the scolding skipped us past that part?”

“I take it you aren’t into hugs, like Shianni is?” Sigrun flashed a smile up at Rhian, bright in the face of scowling, just as she had with Nathaniel in her earlier Warden days. “No matter. I’m Sigrun, since you probably don’t know me. I’m a Warden, but I wasn’t here during the Blight. Didn’t become one until after.”

Rhian gave Sigrun an awkward, hesitant smile in return, as if she hadn’t smiled in a long time. “Rhian.” After a nod toward the dwarf, she shifted her attention to Líadan. “And I remember seeing you during the Blight, though I doubt you met me, or remember me, if you did. We probably looked like a bunch of flat-ears to a Dalish like you.”

“Cousin!” This time it was Shianni who scolded. She blinked, as if it’d caught her by surprise. From what Líadan remembered, it was usually Shianni who said something awful, and then was scolded into an apology by another.

Líadan waved Shianni off. “Don’t worry, she’s right. Back then, you were, most of you. Shianni wasn’t, but that’s because she was so outspoken. But during the Blight, when we came here, it was the first time I’d ever been in an alienage. And aside from Zevran, it was the first time I’d met city elves.” She gave them a rueful smile. “I’ve grown up since then, and my outlook has changed a great deal.”

“I’ll say.” Rhian let out a snort of derision. “Dalish elf taking up with a shemlen prince? Caring for the prince’s human son as if he were your own? Knocks you right down from your Dalish pedestal to dwell with the rest of us.”

 _Creators take me_ , thought Líadan. _She’s Velanna in city elf form._ Rhian’s aggressiveness reminded Líadan so strongly of Velanna that she found it hard to be offended, even though Rhian had sounded a lot like the elves in Highever had. It also helped that Shianni and Nuala were also there, appearing astounded at what their cousin had said, and clearly not agreeing in the least. Líadan was, however, at a loss for words that would not start an argument. An argument, that for some reason, Rhian clearly wanted.

“You forget, Rhian,” said Nuala, “that I care for Cáel, as well. I even feed him from my own body, feed him what once nourished my own daughter, Maker keep her soul. Would you judge me the same?”

“No, of course not.” Rhian capitulated far quicker than Velanna ever had, which said many good things about her personal character. “I’m sorry,” she said to Nuala, before turning to Líadan. “I apologize. I hadn’t meant... I’m just on edge about today. It brings out the worst in me.”

“I think Soris should’ve given you the bottle,” said Shianni.

Nuala stepped up to Rhian and hugged her, though not with the same violent enthusiasm as Shianni had used. Then she moved back and appraised her cousin before her face clouded in confusion. “Why are you not dressed for your wedding?”

“Because I’m not getting married.” Rhian cleared her throat and scuffed a booted foot on the hard-packed dirt. “It fell through at the last minute. The match Uncle Cyrion had found somehow heard about my... abilities... and that was that.” For all the discomfort, Rhian didn’t seem particularly distressed.

“I’m sorry,” said Nuala. 

Rhian brightened, almost smiling again. “I’m not. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, even if it would’ve meant the others finally viewing me as an adult. Plus, it gives me the chance to make sure the other two couples get to have their wedding without any unsavory interruptions.”

Nuala traded a look with Líadan before asking her cousin, “What do you mean?”

It was Shianni who answered first, beginning with a sigh. “There’s a reason why I asked about human guards. Last night, we—”

“Not here.” Rhian silenced her cousin with a warning glare, and then motioned them toward one of the wooden tenements in slightly better repair than most found in the Alienage. 

After taking a breath to stem the growing dread that had replaced her curiosity for the day’s events, Líadan started to follow Rhian and the others inside. She was stopped by a tug on her arm, and she looked down to discover Sigrun practically beaming at her. The dwarf held an unsheathed dagger by the tip, flipping it over to catch it by the grip. 

“That isn’t mine,” said Líadan. 

“Never said it was. Anyway,” said Sigrun as she flipped the dagger again, “I nicked this from Kennard.”

A whispered curse came from the shadows in the alley across from the tenement. 

Líadan tried to muffle her chuckles, but didn’t give it her best. Not when the cold dread waned, replaced by the warmth of amusement. It felt good to laugh, in a time and place where she could feel safe and relaxed. The entire day stretched before her, promising the same comfort. As Malcolm would say, things were looking up.


	39. Chapter 39

“When the holy Exalted March of the Dales resulted in the dissolution of the elven kingdom, leaving a great many elves homeless once again, the Divine Renata I declared that all lands loyal to the Chantry must give the elves refuge within their own walls. Considering the atrocities committed by the elves at Red Crossing, this was a great testament to the Chantry’s charity. There was one condition, however—the elves were to lay aside their pagan gods and live under the rule of the Chantry.

Some of the elves refused our goodwill. They banded together to form the wandering Dalish elves, keeping their old elven ways—and their hatred of humans—alive. To this day, Dalish elves still terrorize those of us who stray too close to their camps. Most of the elves, however, saw that it was wisest to live under the protection of humans.

And so we took the elves into our cities and tried to integrate them. We invited them into our own homes and gave them jobs as servants and farmhands. Here, in Denerim, the elves even have their own quarter, governed by an elven keeper. Most have proven to be productive members of society. Still, a small segment of the elven community remains dissatisfied. These troublemakers and malcontents roam the streets causing mayhem, rebelling against authority and making a general nuisance of themselves.”

—from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

Once the house’s door closed to the bustling alienage outside, Nuala roamed through the front room. She checked on various items and nodded to herself on occasion, but why she did it, Líadan couldn’t fathom. 

Then Nuala stopped, her inscrutable look falling on Shianni. “Where’s my father? I had thought he would be present today, even though your arrangement fell through at the last minute.”

“Bann Rodolf wouldn’t allow him to take the day off,” said Shianni, “even after I spoke with him. Uncle was made his steward just after the Landsmeet—which is unheard of for an elf! But Rodolf insisted on it, explaining that he saw no reason for his best, most organized staff member not to be the one to run the household staff. However, it means Uncle is now even more indispensable than he was before, and with Rodolf wanting to get out of his Denerim estate and return to his bannorn before the harvest begins, Uncle is needed to oversee the preparations. Rodolf was going to do his best to see that Uncle is free in the afternoon, though.”

“Surprising, for a noble to be so considerate of an elf’s time,” said Rhian.

Shianni pinched the bridge of her nose and seemed as if she could use another drink. “Andraste’s ass, they aren’t all bad,” she said after a moment. “Even _I’ve_ learned that after interacting with them so much. They’re people. Some are good, some are bad, others are hard to read. Not all of them are like Arl Vaughan, thank the Maker.”

The crossing of Rhian’s arms over her chest communicated just how little convinced she was. “They’re still shemlen. And there’s enough bad ones to give cause not to trust the others.”

“Is Vaughan at it again?” Nuala asked, interrupting the staring contest between her two cousins. “Is that what you’re hoping to ward off?” She’d found an old cloth doll, and her fingers were playing with the fringed edges of the doll’s dress.

“Yes, and yes.” Rhian’s arms remained crossed, and her hands gripped her elbows tightly as she gave a firm nod. “Last night, three more women who are servants at his estate returned with injuries. Two of them, like the ones before, wouldn’t speak of what happened, out of fear. The third woman did.”

Nuala’s fingers stilled and she glanced up sharply. “Who?”

“Nessa,” said Shianni. “It was the only employment she could find after her parents left for Ostagar and never returned.” 

“Not only was Nessa assaulted, but she had heard Vaughan and his _friends_ bragging about what they’d do at the weddings the next day. Today. And I won’t let them.”

Líadan certainly believed her.

“At least in Orzammar, the nobles leave the dusters alone. Sure, it’s mostly because they think they’re too good for us, that they like to pretend we don’t exist, but we aren’t harassed,” said Sigrun. “How can a noble be known for this sort of thing and get away with it?” She frowned and looked at Líadan. “Shouldn’t Alistair have done something by now?”

“Not without proof,” said Shianni. “Valendrian and I have spoken to him about it before. He wants to do something, but he can’t take any action unless there’s proof. We’ve tried and tried, but we still haven’t managed to get any, so he keeps doing whatever he wants, without punishment.”

Rhian stalked over to the lone window, her limbs tense with readiness. “But we’ve been forewarned about today, and despite advice from Valendrian to postpone the weddings, we aren’t going to let some shem control us more than they already do. He doesn’t have the right, and we aren’t going to let him take it.” She whirled from the window to face Nuala. “So your charge’s bodyguard, cousin, had best not interfere.”

“I don’t think he will.” Nuala dropped the raggedy doll she’d been holding, but then seemed to think better of it, and picked it back up. “Not unless Cáel is threatened. And before you ask,” she said, inclining her head toward the closed front door, “the mabari won’t do anything, either, unless one of us is directly threatened.”

“Or a child is threatened,” said Líadan. “I can’t see Revas or Gunnar letting a child be harmed if they could prevent it.”

“It’s possible to know that much of a dog’s character?” asked Rhian.

Shianni smiled. “Mabari, cousin. They’re not like the street dogs, or even a noble’s hunting dogs. Not from what I’ve seen of the ones I’ve met, and what I’ve been told, over and over.”

Rhian nodded, and then glanced out the window again. Lips pursed in thought, Sigrun followed her gaze before asking, “You’ve set a trap, haven’t you?”

“I have crossbows waiting for me so it’ll look like there’s more than one attacker, and lookouts, just in case. Failing that, Uncle Cyrion gave me Aunt Adaia’s dagger, the one passed to her from her mother.” Her lips curled into a predatory smile as she went to a cupboard and brought out a sheathed dagger. “Perhaps it would be better if I just used it in the first place.” She drew out the curved dagger, its silverite blade glinting in the light from the window. “It’s—”

“Dalish,” said Líadan, startling slightly at seeing a weapon of the kind she’d wielded since before she’d even become an apprentice hunter, and seeing it in a ramshackle city elf alienage home instead of in a Dalish warrior’s competent hand. “It’s a _dar’misu_.” She extended a hand toward Rhian. “May I see it?”

Rhian had a remnant of a frown from her reaction to Líadan’s interruption, but then slowly nodded before handed it over, hilt-first. “I think it was Adaia’s grandmother who was Dalish. We aren’t sure.”

The leather-wrapped grip was still warm from Rhian holding it. Líadan inspected the well-honed blade, and then looked for the smith’s mark. She found it, engraved in the metal just above the hilt, but it was unfamiliar to her. Master Ilen would have known, or Master Varathorn, as they were trained as smiths themselves to identify other smiths’ work. Above it was a simple, stylized outline of a wolf—an early symbol for Fen’Harel, used around the time of the Dales. Líadan had seen it enough time in books Marethari had made her read to know. “This is a very old blade,” she said as soon as she realized. Then she looked up at the expectant faces of the three city elves. “Older than you’d think. Hundreds of years.” She pointed out the mark that had given it away. “This symbol for Fen’Harel hasn’t been used in a long time. Not since the Dales.” Cáel reached out to grab it, and she quickly moved it out of his reach. “Not for you, _da’len_. Not until you’re of age to learn the use of a true blade.”

Nuala looked amused at Líadan’s words to Cáel, but Rhian didn’t seem to notice, more eager to learn about the dagger. “Uncle Cyrion said its name was Fang.”

After a final look at a piece of her people’s history that had somehow found its way into an elven alienage, Líadan handed it back to Rhian. “Wield it well.” Then she smiled. “Good hunting.”

Rhian’s look was curious before she accepted the blade and gave a solemn nod. Then she turned to Shianni. “You’ll be distracting Valendrian, like we talked about?”

“So he _isn’t_ in on your little plan,” said Nuala. “I thought it didn’t sound like him.”

“He’d rather compromise for peace, but we’re asked to give up too much.” Rhian swept her hand toward the door. “And it isn’t like there’s actual peace in the first place, so I won’t be breaking any peace or any accord, no matter what the _hahren_ says. Just,” she said to Nuala, and then she paused, the rising color on her cheeks a reflection of her barely restrained rage, “just stay out of the way. You don’t have to do anything, but don’t interfere.” She fixed a look on Shianni. “And keep Valendrian out of it. You know how he likes to get in the middle of things. It will be hard enough keeping Mother Boann from stepping in and getting hurt.” After getting a nod from both her cousins, Rhian momentarily disappeared in the back of the house, explaining that she needed to dress in something more appropriate.

“It _should_ be a wedding outfit,” Nuala said quietly. 

Shianni said nothing.

When they went back outside, Rhian moved silently in light leather armor of cheap make, yet fit her well enough. It was better than thin clothing, Líadan figured, though leatherwork that substandard would’ve been thrown out by Master Ilen, and brought Master Wade, the human smith, to tears. She almost wanted to show him, just to see his reaction. 

The mabari happily circled around them when they exited, and continued to stay at their sides when she and Nuala followed Shianni to stand near Valendrian. A Chantry priest—Mother Boann, Líadan assumed—already stood on a square, raised wooden platform. The platform itself was newly constructed from scrap materials, fresh cuts bright on the old wood. Before the priest stood two couples, each elf unable to hide their anxiety. Three of them, Líadan could tell, were merely nervous about the impending bonding. The other, a tall—for an elf—young man kept glancing upward, or into the dark alleyways. Líadan wanted to ask Shianni if the young man was in on it, but refrained. Valendrian, with hearing just as good as any of the other elves, would overhear, and then there’d be trouble. 

“Soris seems nervous, cousin,” said Nuala, her tone communicating that she knew exactly what Soris was really nervous about.

“He’s unsure about his bride.” When Valendrian looked intently at Soris, Shianni shot Nuala a dirty look. Then she said, “She’s a bit mouse-like, I admit. Her voice. Maker, her voice. Part of me can’t blame—”

“Children,” said Valendrian. “Now is not the time. We are ready to begin.” He stepped forward and up onto the platform.

Líadan raised her eyebrows in surprise. Valendrian certainly _sounded_ like an elder. He sounded even more so as he gave a short speech, speaking of the elves being a free people, and the importance of kin and kind. His touching upon Andraste as the Maker’s prophet shattered the illusion, making Líadan scowl. Andraste did not free the elves on her own. The elves had helped, as well. Helped Andraste with their archers and warriors. 

As she’d fumed, Mother Boann had thanked Valendrian, and he’d stepped down to rejoin Shianni on the periphery of the crowd. Líadan glanced around to catch a glimpse of Rhian, but couldn’t find a trace of her. Good training, then, if she couldn’t be spotted by a hunter. Then she looked for Kennard. After a moment, there as a flicker of movement, and she knew the royal guard had done it on purpose so she’d know his position. Then she returned her attention to the ceremony, curious about its contents, if she would object to anything in it, should she ever back down from her position of refusal of Chantry approval of her own bonding.

“In the name of the Maker,” said Mother Boann, her hands raised, “who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light, I—”

There was a commotion on the narrow street that led to the alienage’s gate, and Soris pointed toward it, rendering the priest silent. A group of humans marched through, pushing elves out of the way as they did. Three of them were nobles, judging by their fine dress, and the remaining others were guards or mercenaries, armed and armored as they were. The bold humans strolled straight up to the platform as if they had every right to be there, even as the Chantry priest voiced her objections and demanded explanation.

The lord, whom Líadan recognized as Arl Vaughan, laughed away the question, going on about a party needing guests. “We’re just here for a good time, aren’t we, boys?” he asked one of the lords who’d accompanied him.

“Just a good time with the ladies,” one answered with a laugh.

Then a crossbow bolt blossomed from his throat, changing his laugh to a gurgle as he fell. Screams and gasps came from the ducking crowd as bolts seemed to fly in from everywhere, a second bolt striking a guard, and a third narrowing missing one of the nobles. Before Shianni could react, Valendrian ran for the platform with a speed belying his age, shouting for the fighting to stop. 

Vaughan first grabbed Mother Boann to use as a shield, and when she fought him with a strength and ferocity he hadn’t anticipated, tossed her away in favor of the older Valendrian. But Valendrian kept managing to step between Vaughan and his escape. “Maker curse you!” Vaughan yelled, and then snatched an axe from one of his guards. He swept it up into an arc and into the side of the elder’s head. Líadan covered Cáel’s eyes and ears before the blow was finished, though she knew the wet sound of it landing would haunt for for a long time to come. 

Unable to watch Valendrian’s body tumble—there was no way he could have survived such a blow—Líadan turned to look in the shadows for Kennard. She itched to fight, but with carrying Cáel, she didn’t have that option. Kennard did, though she wasn’t entirely sure if the human guard would side with the other humans and move to stop them from being killed, or if he’d continue to discharge his duty in being Cáel’s bodyguard. She caught an outline of Kennard’s shape, but he hadn’t yet moved from the place he’d stood when the bolt killed the first young lord.

With a frown turning down her mouth, and her arms still around Cáel, Líadan looked toward the platform just as the rain of crossbow bolts slowed and stopped. Half the crowd used the break to flee, while the rest stayed, staring at the bodies on the platform. Mother Boann had bent to assist a Valendrian who was far beyond the aid of a healer. Perhaps she could offer up prayers to her Maker, for that would be his only hope. 

Vaughan sneered at Mother Boann, and then cursed when he couldn’t wrest the axe from Valendrian’s body. He let go and stumbled back, the first hint of panic lighting his eyes when he noticed the other young lord who’d accompanied him crumpling downward. Rhian had appeared, whirling in a certain type of madness, and sunk her daggers into the second noble’s stomach. It would be a slow, agonizing death for him.

Shianni lunged forward, through the crowd, and jumped up onto the platform to aid Mother Boann with Valendrian.

Observing from the shadows, Kennard did not move.

Neither had she or Nuala, Líadan realized, just as mesmerized by the turn of events as the crowd who hadn’t fled. They were the smart ones, those who had gone to safety as soon as the opportunity arose. But Líadan had never been one to run from a fight, not when her training since her apprenticeship had been in protection of the clan. Wardens were no different. They _protected_. Her problem now was that she still had Cáel in the sling at her front, and she couldn’t very well step into the fray while carrying him, hands free or not. The fact that she wasn’t wearing full leathers or cuirass seemed less important. Líadan started to turn to Nuala, to see if the nurse would take Cáel and run to safety with Kennard and the two mabari, so that Líadan could help make sure no one else—no elves, and no innocent humans—died. 

But before she could finish her turn, Vaughan jumped down from the platform, shoved a woman out of the way, and sprinted for the Alienage’s permanently open gates. 

Rhian gave chase, as unrelenting on her quarry as any Dalish hunter. 

Instinctively, Líadan followed, trained to help her fellow hunters. Nuala ran after her, and the two mabari kept up at their sides, looking eager for combat they’d not experienced in months.

Then Kennard moved, running after them, shouting various orders at the two bewildered royal guards when they burst through the alienage’s gate. Following the yelling of a commotion, Líadan and Nuala swung left toward the market.

By the time they reached the main market square, it was mayhem. Vaughan’s body lay on the cobbled stone, the Dalish dagger in his neck. Rhian stood over his corpse, her expression determined, yet satisfied. Then her hands went to the dagger’s grip and wrenched it out. But before she could clean the blade and replace it in its sheath, a pack of city guards rushed through the gap made by the gawking crowd, and seized her.

“You’re under arrest for breaking the King’s peace,” one of the helmed men had the audacity to declare.

“Let me show you breaking His Majesty’s peace,” said Rhian. She caught one of the guards unawares, driving an elbow into a codpiece, and clipped another at the ankle with a sweep of her leg as she ducked. She continued her turn, slicing at the unprotected hamstrings of a third guard. Then she jumped up and pivoted to run, but was brought down by two more guards before she took a step. Her arms held by the guards, Rhian’s cheek cracked against the worn cobblestones, stilling her long enough for three more guards to swarm, joining the first two in holding her down. 

“As the sergeant said, you’re under arrest, elf. You murdered the arl in broad daylight. I can’t imagine it will go well for you,” one of the newly arrived guards said into her ear.

Rhian threw her head to the side, knocking her skull into the guard’s unprotected nose. “No, it won’t go well for _you_. I won’t pay for that shem’s crimes against my people.” As the guard stumbled back, clutching at his bleeding, likely broken nose, Rhian shoved upward with her entire body, her muscles moving with power drawn from a connection Líadan was well familiar with—the Beyond. 

Nuala’s cousin was a mage. Líadan said as much.

Nuala hummed in a mostly noncommittal, but just positive enough way.

“That would’ve been good information to know sooner,” said Líadan. Why did it always seem like pertinent information was never revealed to her until the last possible second?

“Not _now_ ,” said Nuala. “She’s revealed herself in the middle of the market, for Maker’s sake! The chantry is right _there_!”

Líadan followed Nuala’s pointing, belatedly noting that the two of them were between the chantry and the fight between Rhian and the city guards. 

Said guards were scattered around on the market’s ground, winded and bruised, but none of them dead. Having thrown her captors far enough to clear her way, Rhian was going at a dead run toward one of the many exits to the other sections of the city. 

It hadn’t been flashy magic, but it had been _enough_.

The two templars posted as guards outside the chantry doors began chasing Rhian. One stopped, and then the other, making subtle movements Líadan had seen Alistair and Malcolm do in battles with emissaries. Again, she covered Cáel with her arms as the double white lights burst forth and slammed into Rhian, driving her once more to the ground. From the look of betrayal and loss on her face, it was clear to Líadan the other woman had never suffered a smite. 

The Dalish dagger used to kill Vaughan clattered away as one of the approaching templars kicked it clear. 

The chantry’s doors flew violently open, and more templars poured out of the chantry’s doors, drawn by the call of wild magic. The one in the lead sighted Líadan first, though she hadn’t even considered drawing on the Beyond. She couldn’t fight, holding and protecting a whimpering Cáel as she was. Yet, the templar made overt, familiar gestures of a coming smite; his eyes, his will, were focused on her. 

She darted sideways, but couldn’t evade the entire smite. As she fell, driven to the cobblestones by the will made manifest, she managed to turn enough that she took the brunt of the fall on her left shoulder and rolled to her back. Her arms remained securely around Cáel, who’d stopped his warning whimpers to burst into a full-blown wail. 

Líadan felt like crying with him, with how events were turning out. The blackness from the Knight-Vigilant’s smite did not appear with this one; it must have been a new or unskilled templar who’d smote her. Even still, Kennard appeared out of nowhere, checking on her and Cáel, with Nuala bending over as well. “Take him,” Líadan said, her words hard to form at first, needing to get air into her lungs after the smite had stolen it. “Get to the compound.”

Nuala nodded, jaw set in determination, even as she cast a glance at the stilled form of her cousin, and then began undoing the sling enough to slide Cáel out.

In the background, Líadan could hear the click of the dogs’ nails against the cobblestones as they circled, Sigrun yelling at the templars, and even the crowd beginning to mutter instead of gasp and scream in fear and shock. She was confused at first, and then remembered they’d know who she was, they’d know the heraldry on Kennard’s dark tabard, they’d recognize Gunnar, and they’d certainly put the facts together that the crying, hysterical infant was Cáel.

His safety was of their concern, and Líadan’s first and foremost concern. “Take Sigrun and the mabari with you,” she said as Nuala freed Cáel and pressed him against her chest. Before Nuala could answer, both dogs barked in dismay, Gunnar staying between them and the templars, and Revas trotting back to nose at Líadan.

“Doesn’t look like they agree,” said Kennard. “Need to go. Things are getting hairy.”

“Sigrun, you go, at least. More hands and bodies.” Even so, Líadan felt like it wouldn’t be enough. Not with the miasma of tension, anger, and fear rising from the crowd and the templars.

“I don’t—fine,” said Sigrun. 

The sabatons covering the templars’ boots clacked against the cobblestones; they were getting close.

Kennard’s eyes flicked over and back, assessing the danger. “We’re leaving right now.” Then he herded Nuala forward, in front of him, and Sigrun dashed over to take a protective point. After a single look back from Nuala, they rushed toward the Warden compound. 

Revas refused to leave Líadan’s side, growling a warning at the approaching templars.

“Easy, there,” one of them said in a thick Orlesian accent. His hands were empty, but some of the others had kept swords drawn, their movements rife with energy looking to be used, most likely in a fight. Behind them, behind the templars that had emerged from the chantry, the two templar guards who’d caught Rhian were dragging her into the building.

Her protective charge given over to others, Líadan was free to engage, to protect herself, to protect another elf. The smite’s effects had already almost dissipated, and in the back of her mind she wondered exactly how weak that templar must have been for her to be recovering so soon. But most of her mind was occupied with finding some sort of weapon, growing increasingly concerned when even a makeshift one didn’t appear. The crowd gathered behind her closed off an escape, and Líadan didn’t try to force one, because she didn’t want to leave Rhian to the mercy of the Chantry. They’d kill her or make her Tranquil, and because she had the ability to prevent it, she’d do all she could to use that ability. They’d probably be more than a little angry about a conscription, and she couldn’t even begin to fathom the diplomatic snarls that would result from one, but she didn’t care. Saving a life mattered more, especially when the life in question could be useful, and wasted if allowed to be snuffed out by execution or Tranquility. 

Standing up had fully revealed the Wardens’ sigil on Líadan’s arming jacket. “Hold, all of you,” said one of the templars from the back. Even one of the threatening templars halted her approach on seeing it. It seemed some Orlesian templars respected the Grey Wardens.

Some did not. The two others continued onward, ignoring the louder growls from Revas and Gunnar, growls that quickly escalated into barking when the templars’ swords were brought to bear instead of held at their sides. 

The first templar took another step that brought him within range to be an active threat, his sword’s tip already extended, his foot lifting to lunge forward to dispense with the problem.

Gunnar reached him first.

A guttural snarl was the only warning as the mabari leapt, teeth flashing as he pounced straight for the templar’s throat, just as he would have done with a hurlock. The templar changed tactics at the last possible second, bringing his arms up to ward off the dog. Gunnar clamped his jaws around the elbow of the templar’s sword arm, an elbow which was protected only by leather straps and the padded jack underneath. The templar shouted in pain as Gunnar’s sharp teeth sunk into his flesh, flailing at the dog with his off-hand. Gunnar dragged him halfway down, his body set and ungiving as he brought down the threat.

The second templar balked, and then moved forward to help, bringing his shield around to his front, his sword arm behind and down. Next to Líadan, Revas looked back and forth between Gunnar and Líadan, her eyes clearing showing her dilemma. She had to protect her person, and yet she felt compelled to aid the other mabari from the danger of a flank attack. Gunnar’s eyes shifted briefly over toward Líadan and Revas, and Líadan could swear his expression told Revas to stay right where she was.

With a huff and another growl at the other templars, Revas did. She pressed against Líadan’s legs, blocking her from interfering and thereby putting herself in danger.

The templar with the kite shield moved to stay in Gunnar’s blind spot, made larger by the mabari’s momentary inattention to both threatening templars. Líadan shouted when she saw the templar shift and set his feet, and those of the gathered crowd close enough to notice did the same. But Gunnar refused to let go of his quarry, as staunchly determined to protect his people as he had been during any battle in the Blight. 

The templar drove the shield down.

It was the second sound she heard that day that would forever echo in Líadan’s memory. She felt the crunch shiver through her own bones when the kite shield’s point hammered into Gunnar’s unprotected back. The yelp from the mabari—Gunnar had _never_ made a sound like that in the years she’d known him, not once for any of his battle injuries—forced her eyes shut for a moment, her mind unable to comprehend what should have been impossible. There was a shout and shuffling, the whip of a thrusting sword, and she opened her eyes in time to witness the sword finishing what the shield had started when it pinned Gunnar to the hard ground.

Revas howled, and the crowd howled and shouted and yelled in anger and outrage along with her. Líadan couldn’t speak, and the crowd spoke for her, outrage growing louder, and threats lobbed as pebbles, and then small rocks, were thrown at the templars.

“Sodding Orlesians!” said one nameless face.

“What kind of monsters are you to kill a mabari?” asked another.

“He was a Blight hero!” came one shout.

The rest of the templars either began to shuffle away from the pariahs, or stood and looked on in horror, as immobilized as some of the other witnesses. The angering crowd didn’t notice the subtleties, too caught up in ‘Orlesian’ and ‘templar’ and ‘bad.’ Líadan, trained in the skill of a hunter’s observation, saw. The detail was nearly as vivid as the act before it. Had she not needed a target for her outrage and pain, the Orlesian templars would have appeared as individuals, and not representatives of the whole. But she, and the rest of the Fereldan crowd, seemed to require targets, and the men and women in highly recognizable armor and livery made good ones.

The templar who’d called the order to halt shouldered through the shocked party of templars. “No one was to be _harmed_ ,” he said to the two templars who’d attacked. He ripped the sword away from the first templar, and pushed the second templar in the chest. “Get back to the chantry. Now, before this gets even uglier.”

Líadan wasn’t sure if it could, not with Gunnar splayed out on the cobblestones as he was. The crowd was decidedly unfriendly, creeping close, surging forward on grief and rage, but some had moved to crouch where the templars had been, already trying to save the mabari.

That sound. That _sound_ and Líadan wasn’t sure if he could be saved, if anything could be saved in this mess.

One of the would-be healers looked up and met Líadan’s gaze that had been fixed on the fallen mabari. “We’ll take care of him, Warden,” he said. “We know he’s the Prince’s. We’ll see that he’s brought to the compound.”

Another squad of city guards had entered the market square during the confrontation, in time enough to witness enough to know what had gone on. “You go save that elf from the Orlesians,” one said to her. “They might do worse than send her to the Circle. It isn’t their right. She’s Fereldan. Either the King deals with her or Kinloch Hold deals with her, but not the Orlesians.”

Gunnar would want her to save whoever she could. He was being helped, and she was no healer, lacking healing magic or anything beyond aid rendered before the victim could be brought to a healer. She nodded once, sharply, and marched determinedly toward the closed chantry gates. Revas made to follow her, but Líadan sent her to stay with Gunnar and help the ones helping the other mabari. She didn’t think she could have tolerated the possibility of losing Revas to overzealous templars, as well, and her mabari seemed to understand. Revas licked Líadan’s hand once before trotting over to where there were at least four people bent over the massive wardog’s body.

The two unlucky templars left outside to guard the retreat of the others eyed Líadan warily as she approached, even as they endured the hissed threats and invectives from the restless crowd the city guard had yet to corral. 

She stopped just outside of a sword’s reach in front of them. “Let me in. I have business with that mage you just dragged off.” Rage at what they’d done to Gunnar surged through her, unable to be ignored. “And some complaints to make.” Though, ‘complaints’ didn’t cover half what she felt they deserved.

“I’m afraid we can’t,” the guard on the left said. “The Divine’s still in residence, and it was expressly ordered that you not be allowed in without templar escort, Warden.” A slight tremble in his ridiculously Orlesian mustache betrayed his nervousness.

“So escort me.”

“Can’t,” said the other guard. “Guard duty here. The crowd is more than a bit menacing, as you can see.”

“Color me surprised.”

The templar shifted his tone to be softer when he spoke. “Not all of us condone his actions, Warden. Not all templars think the same.”

“No one stopped him. That’s as much condoning it as outright doing it yourselves.”

The templar guards said nothing in reply.

Líadan turned and stalked off toward the Warden compound to fetch Thierry. She had to get in there to conscript Rhian before the templars did something irreversible, either execution or Tranquility. She held no hope that the templars would opt for anything else, and feared they would choose the more abhorrent action—an action that she would not abide.

At the Grey Warden compound, she found Thierry easily enough, standing in the main hall as he was. But she couldn’t see Nuala with Kennard and Cáel in immediate vicinity, and she had to reassure herself that they’d gotten somewhere safe.

Thierry accompanied her, but with no small amount of bitching. “She’s an apostate,” Thierry said as they hurriedly walked back to the chantry. “She’s supposed to be given to the Chantry. That’s how it works. Especially in the case of a dangerous apostate who killed someone!”

“She killed him with a dagger, not magic.”

“Even so. It’s the way of the world. She’s going to where she belongs.”

Líadan threw a glare over her shoulder. “I thought you said you didn’t care.”

He didn’t seem taken aback by her comment. Instead, he was indignant. “I said I was a Warden, not a templar. Oghren was the one who said I shouldn’t care.”

“You might want to pick a side. Need a hint as to which one would be better for your immediate health?” Líadan wondered if Thierry was just being shitty and bitter in general, or if the lessening amounts of lyrium in his body were making him that way. She found she didn’t much care, not after all that’d happened. 

When he spoke again, he seemed contrite. “That said, I do respect the Grey Wardens’ right to conscription. I will not only not interfere, but I will help to exercise that right.” While he almost sounded begrudging, he at least appeared sincere.

“See that you do.” She didn’t tell him what she’d do to him if he didn’t. 

The templar guards, the same ones as before, seemed confused by Thierry’s presence, but addressed Líadan as before. “You’re back.”

“I am.” She chucked a thumb at Thierry. “Brought my own templar. So let me in.”

“No.”

She should have gotten a dagger on her way out of the compound. Or a sword. Or a bow, or even a stave. “I’m following your rules.”

“You pose a danger to Her Perfection.”

“No, I pose a danger to you if you don’t let me through.”

The templar’s left hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. “We have our orders. They come from a higher authority than you, Warden.”

“Senior Warden.” She felt the correction was warranted, given the circumstances. “On official Grey Warden business. Trumps everything, so let me in.”

“No. You are not the Warden Commander. You aren’t even Denerim’s Senior Warden. You have no authority here. Now, begone.”

She stepped forward, tired of them keeping her from saving something from this situation. “Well, I hate to do this the hard way—”

“You are a mage,” said the other guard. “We are templars. Need I explain how mages pose no threat to templars, elf?”

She’d been reduced to elf from Warden, and it was meant as an insult. Her temper snapped and she took another step forward, planting her index finger on the templar’s armored chest. “I’m not your typical—”

Thierry interrupted her by grasping her elbow and pulling her aside. He ignored her glare while keeping a strong grip on her arm. “A smite would render you unconscious. Have you forgotten?”

“Only a _good_ smite would,” she muttered, and then stole a glance back at the guards while Thierry frowned at her. “I can get past these two,” she said when she returned her glare to Thierry. “And then—”

“And then nothing. The other templars would notice, and eventually one or more of them would get a good smite or ten in.”

She glowered.

He stepped back, making a show of taking his hand off her arm. “Of course, it’s your risk to take.”

Creators take her, she couldn’t wait until this was over and she wasn’t so ineffective and weak when it came to her work. “I could sneak in.”

“In broad daylight?”

The damned former templar didn’t have to sound so _skeptical_ , she decided. He also didn’t need to be so immune to her glare. “Don’t doubt my abilities.”

Thierry sighed.

She wanted to punch him, but held back to hear what else he had to say. Just because the posted templar guards annoyed her, and the other templars had incited her wrath earlier, didn’t mean she could take it out on Thierry. She wanted to, though. And it would momentarily make her feel better. Forcing her hand to relax, she let out a long breath when Thierry didn’t explain his sigh. “What?” she asked, stretching her fingers when they tried to curl into a fist.

“You couldn’t just steal away with the apostate,” he said. “You would have to make the official conscription, which would require you talking with someone in charge, which would be impossible, because you’d be hit with a smite at first sight.” She opened her mouth to argue, but Thierry continued, having learned in the past weeks to never allow her the chance if he wanted to make his point known. “Even if you managed to get in there, and out with the apostate, unseen, they would know it was you. If they did, the Knight-Vigilant would retaliate.”

And she also knew perfectly well how Ser Renaud would do so. Líadan gave the templars and the chantry another glare as she let a stream of her finest elvish swears run from her lips. Then her gaze moved to the marketplace, now mostly cleared of the crowd from before, with a few stragglers reluctant to leave, merchants cleaning up their stalls, and city guards doing their best to move things along. Gunnar and the people who’d been assisting him were gone.

In their wake, blood remained on the cobblestones.


	40. Chapter 40

“And then Velcorminth swung his mighty hammer, and the blow tore the Alamarri bann’s head clean off. He lay crumpled beneath the war leader and Velcorminth did shout, ‘You canine-lovers, you who think you can defeat me, stand before me and my dogs. They are the Dogs of War!’ He planted his blood-soaked hammer in the earth and his enemies did quiver.

But victory would not go to the Chasind that day, for Hafter approached and intoned, ‘I am Hafter, slayer of darkspawn, leader of the Alamarri. No dog nor wolf alive frightens me.’

And so they traded blows for three days and three nights. Bruised, bloodied, and tired they grew. It was after one thousand blows that Hafter’s blade, Yusaris, found Velcorminth’s heart. Then Hafter spake, ‘I banish the Chasind from these plains. I have taken the greatest of your men from you and claimed his weapon as my own. If ever you rise against me or my sons, we will take more than that.’ And so, to this very day, the Chasind never venture far from their wilds, and the children of Hafter still hold our lands free.”

—from _Tales of the Alamarri,_ author unknown

**Líadan**

Líadan looked away from the reminder of the mabari’s probable death—Creators, that _sound_ would never fade—to find Thierry studying her closely, with what definitely looked like concern in his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked. “Kennard and Nuala told me some, about her apostate cousin and the nobles that’d been preying on the elves in the alienage, and that things had gone awry and escalated, and both Rhian and you had been hit with smites. Neither of them mentioned injuries that would have left stains behind like that.”

They must have carried Gunnar to the compound while she and Thierry were engaged with the guard templars. Thierry hadn’t even seen... “Gunnar was injured. I don’t know how bad.” But she knew it was bad. The sort of bad she wasn’t sure Wynne could fix, if they could even get him to her in time. It just seemed so wrong, that a mere templar would get the jump on the mabari. Líadan had seen Gunnar come through far worse fights during the Blight, his tongue lolling and eyes alight with the almost unnatural intelligence of his breed, and nary an injury to be seen. The confrontation earlier should have left him just as unharmed. When had Gunnar become slow? Surely, they would have noticed during a recent battle.

But there hadn’t been a recent battle, not ones that involved physical combat, at least for them. Gunnar hadn’t seen combat since their journey to Sundermount, and even then, it had been nothing more strenuous than a hunt. It had been so long since they’d seen real battle that they’d never realized he’d lost a step. Nor did she know how old he was, to have such a thing happen. How long did a mabari typically live if they weren’t killed in battle? The deerhounds many Dalish kept lived a decade at most, but they weren’t as finely trained as the mabari were. So much work, dedication, and magic went into raising the mabari that for them to live only a decade didn’t seem to make sense. For them to live such a short time practically seemed unfair. And with their imprinting...

Creators, she didn’t want to think about it, about how Malcolm would take losing the steady companion he’d had for years, since before he’d even become a Grey Warden. With having a mabari of her own, Líadan truly understood how much the imprinting both ways. However much the loss of Gunnar affected her, it would be tenfold with Malcolm. She wished she could spare him the sorrow.

Thierry was talking. His voice was warm and friendly, if overly infused with concern, yet Líadan wasn’t paying attention to the actual words. She needed to get her mind off Gunnar, and she needed to get Rhian out of the human Chantry’s hands before it was too late. “I’m going to the palace,” she said, cutting off Thierry.

He frowned in confusion. “Am I to go with you?”

“Do what you want. But I’m going right now.” True to her word, she spun on her heel and stalked toward the closest palace entrance. To her surprise, Thierry followed wordlessly as Líadan was allowed past the guards at the side entrance, and then left alone by the servants and staff members they passed in the palace’s complex halls. It took Líadan stopping and asking five servants for Alistair’s whereabouts—she couldn’t face Malcolm yet, knowing as much and yet as little as she did about Gunnar—before one of them had the information to give her. The sixth servant was even able to bring them to the solar Alistair was in, meeting with two minors banns whose names Líadan didn’t recognize. Nor, she realized, did she much care at the moment. 

She strode past the two guards posted at the door with such confidence that they didn’t react until she’d gone through, bringing an immediate interruption to the meeting. When Alistair rose to his feet, his expression a mix of irritation and alarm, she finally came to stop, and found the words to explain what was needed missing. “There’s a... situation.”

“Situation.” Alistair repeated the word slowly, as if he were unfamiliar with it. Then he asked, “One that you caused?”

“What? No! Not this time.” Behind her, she heard Thierry speaking to the posted guards, and then the banns, and then the former templar hustled them out of the room. “I was a witness,” Líadan said, electing to continue once Thierry had shut the door behind the retreating lords and guards. “There’s an elven mage—apostate, whatever—they’ve got in the chantry. I saw her get captured.” Not watched, but saw, because she liked to think there was difference. You watched if you had no intention of getting involved, but you saw if you were going to do something about it. Or at least try to.

There were shouts in the corridor, and then a heavy knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Alistair, who then gave Líadan a significant look. “And that’s how you’re supposed to enter a room when you’re a polite person.”

She began to pace, and resisted running a hand through her hair. “Creators, Alistair, this isn’t the time for manners.”

Captain Somerled, who’d just come through the door, raised an eyebrow at her before addressing the King. “There’s been a disturbance in the central marketplace that you should be aware of, Your Majesty.”

“I was telling him when you interrupted,” said Líadan. She didn’t wait for a reaction from the captain of the Royal Guard, and returned to Alistair instead. He was the one she’d have to convince; Alistair could order the rest, convinced or not. “Nuala’s cousin, Rhian. She was involved in an incident—”

“Incident?” asked Somerled, doing nothing to hide his shock. “She killed the arl of Denerim in broad daylight, and two lesser lords along with him.”

“Arl Vaughan is dead?” asked Alistair.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Somerled shot Líadan a glare, and then turned a neutral look toward the King. “Dead by the apprehended apostate’s hand, as well as Lords Braden and Jonaley.”

Alistair furrowed his brow, and then brightened. “In other words, no great loss.”

Somerled, who’d looked to be about to say something else, closed his mouth and frowned at the King. “Ser, whatever proclivities they may have had, or unproven crimes they may have committed, they were still nobility.”

Some of Alistair’s brightness faded as his frustration with Captain Somerled grew. “Bann Shianni has repeatedly brought up Arl Vaughan’s proclivities in semi-private meetings, Captain. You’ve attended some of those meetings, as has Guard-Captain Kylon. The only thing stopping anyone from taking action has been lack of evidence.”

“Which means, in name, they were still nobility, and not criminals—even if everyone believes them to be criminals. Besides, if the situation had truly warranted drastic action, Bann Shianni would have agreed to guards posted _in_ the Alienage.”

“She settled for outside so that the sanctity of the Alienage wouldn’t be entirely broken. And clearly, one or more of those guards disobeyed orders for Vaughan to have gotten in there.”

Somerled had yet to betray any hint of frustration or true anger. He seemed to be focusing on the stricter interpretation of the law, even though it meant he knew a criminal would have continued to roam free. “I’m sure Guard-Captain Kylon will do an internal investigation into the matter. The guard or guards responsible will face justice. It’s the arl and his lords who will not.”

This was ridiculous, Líadan thought. A clan would have exiled a being such as Vaughan long before it reached the crisis it had. Yet, even after the problem had finally been dealt with, these humans argued over justice—justice that had already and decidedly been meted out by Rhian. “There _was_ justice, if what Shianni told me is true. They were criminals, not nobility. And when someone finally does something about them instead of just watching, she’s taken prisoner by the templars.” She bit back the rest of what she wanted to say, about humans and their lack of true justice. Not only was it not universally true, it wasn’t what she’d truly experienced in her time living amongst humans. Humans, like the _elvhen_ , had good people and bad. It just seemed the bad got far more attention, and somehow, came into far more power.

Alistair gave her a half-smile. “Probably more for the magic-using than the killing, I suspect. Revered Mother Boann has spoken with me a few times regarding those lords. She could never find proof, either, but she’d heard enough from the elves who worked for them.”

That explained why Mother Boann had been more inclined to help the elves than her fellow humans, Líadan realized. “Either way,” she said out loud, “they’ll do something terrible to her if we don’t do something. And she’s a good fighter, better than Nuala said, and is a mage as a bonus, and—”

“And you’re a Grey Warden,” said Alistair. “Why didn’t you conscript her?”

She threw her hands in the air. They were wasting time, time Rhian didn’t have. “I wasn’t given a chance! Orlesian templars got between us and I think there were Orlesian templars who took her away, and then Orlesian templars hit me with a smite while I was holding Cáel, and—”

Alistair stood up so quickly that he banged his knee on the table. “Is he—”

“Cáel’s fine. The templar who hit me wasn’t well-trained, and it barely knocked the wind out of me. Cáel was upset, but otherwise unharmed. Nuala, Sigrun, and Kennard took him right after to bring him safely to the Warden compound. Which was good, because the Orlesian templars really didn’t want to give up on what they must’ve seen as fallen prey, and then two of them threatened me. Gunnar got right in their faces, the two who kept advancing, and when the one fought him—” She broke off, unable to say it.

“I fear the reports say the mabari was slain, Your Majesty,” said Somerled, not without sympathy.

“ _Maker_ ,” said Alistair, and shifted his gaze from Líadan to Somerled. “You’re certain?”

“A city guard already brought the news to me. Last I was told, they were trying to locate Enchanter Wynne to bring her to the Warden compound for a go at healing him.”

Alistair’s eyes still held a small spark of hope when he turned to Líadan. “What do you think?”

 _Not even Sylaise could have healed such wounds._ But when she opened her mouth to say it, nothing came out. She shrugged instead, and then looked away, toward the window and the blindingly bright day, so that Alistair and the captain and Thierry wouldn’t see the tears she held back. The three men gave her the space and silence to settle, and she managed to refocus quickly enough. Rhian. She had to save Rhian from the Chantry. “They told me, some of the witnesses there, that they’d take care of Gunnar so I could go make sure the Orlesians didn’t kill Rhian instead of sending her to the Fereldan Circle. I had Revas stay with them.” Her emotions now firmly under control again, eagerly latching right back onto anger, Líadan spun to face Alistair. “But the templars wouldn’t let me into the chantry because the Divine is still there, and I certainly couldn’t kill them to get in.” She paused and tilted her head in thought, as if considering it. “Well, I could have, but that would be frowned on and very uncivilized and not fix anything. I could’ve gone to Malcolm for help, but I doubted he’d be any better once he heard about Gunnar, and since they won’t let me in, you need to go in there and throw around that fancy title of yours. King, I believe it was.”

“Ordering me around, are you?”

The cocked eyebrow was infuriating. “Alistair.”

Despite the situation, he chuckled. Líadan knew it was how he dealt with difficult emotions, and Somerled must’ve known by then, as well. Thierry’s look of askance said much about how little time he’d spent with the King. Then Alistair’s facade of humor disappeared. “All right, let’s go knock some Chantry heads around.” Somerled started, and Alistair held up a hand. “Figuratively, Somerled. Figuratively. If this woman has the martial skill I’m told—”

“She does, Your Majesty. We’ve certainly enough witnesses to attest.”

“Good. Then she’d be a valuable asset to the Grey Wardens, who are desperate for recruits. It’d be a shame to let her be executed or made Tranquil.”

“She’s also Nuala’s cousin,” said Líadan. “I doubt Nuala would remain in her position if we let her cousin to be killed.” In fact, she was fairly certain Nuala would be furious should they not do everything in their power to keep Rhian alive and not Tranquil. But if they managed to get Rhian away from the Chantry, they’d have to put her through the Joining, and there was no telling if she’d live through it. If Rhian died in the Joining, Líadan had no idea how she’d go about telling Nuala. Creators, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Well, lucky for Nuala and Rhian, we like to irritate the Divine around here,” said Alistair.

“Ser, if I may make a suggestion,” said Thierry, who’d been content to remain quiet up until then.

Alistair indicated for him to speak.

Thierry nodded, and then said, “I believe it would be best if His Majesty stayed somewhat on the Divine’s good side and did not antagonize her by conscripting an apostate—also an accused killer—right out from under her nose. I would suggest using your power to get Líadan inside the chantry, and then leave it to her to do the conscripting. That way, most of the Divine’s anger, if she discovers and opposes the action, can be directed at the Wardens, and not Ferelden’s monarchy.”

“That’s... rather astute.” Alistair hadn’t kept the astonishment out of his voice.

“And I fully agree,” said Somerled.

Then Alistair’s astonishment faded, replaced by a solid determination Líadan had become familiar with during the Blight. “No.” Alistair had squared his shoulders, looking like a king—far less like Warden Alistair or Prince Alistair. “I’ll not allow it. The Orlesian templars have not only put my nephew in danger—the current heir-presumptive to Ferelden, mind you,” he said as he looked straight at Somerled, “but they have also violated the Grey Wardens’ right to conscription on Fereldan soil, and they even killed my brother’s mabari. Líadan can do the conscripting once we’re there, but I’ve got a few things to say to the Knight-Vigilant about his command and his templars. The time for keeping my mouth shut in favor of diplomacy has ended. Templars are supposed to be held to a higher standard. It’s about time I called them on it.”

Somerled fidgeted, tossing a half-glance over at the closed door before asking Alistair, “Don’t you think someone should fetch the Queen?”

“No.” Alistair snagged his sword belt and sword from where they leaned in a nearby corner and buckled them on. Then he looked over at Líadan. “Need something pointy? Just in case things go more pear-shaped than they already are.”

Her hand went down to her boot, where she kept her—right. “Yes. Sigrun stole my boot dagger and never gave it back.” Granted, she’d merely gotten distracted before she returned it, but still.

“Stealing is a sin,” said Thierry.

“She’s not Andrastian,” Líadan said to him, and then accepted the sheathed dagger Alistair offered her. “And she grew up in Dust Town. For her, stealing meant staying alive. So her taking our stuff is just practice. Sort of like breathing.” She tucked the dagger into her belt and faced Thierry. “Besides, she gives everything back if it’s from someone she knows. Just, sometimes, it’s on a timetable none of us knows but her.”

Alistair nodded at Líadan and started for the door. But Somerled had yet to move from where he stood in front of it, keeping his body between the King and the door. “We should at least bring a contingent of guards, Your Majesty.”

“Better gather them up quick, then.”

Still, Somerled held his ground. “Ser—”

“Out of the way, Captain, or you’ll find yourself in need of a new job. While I realize your job is to keep me safe, it’s my job to keep my country, my _family_ , safe. Right now, you’re standing in between me and a contingent of people who threatened and harmed part of my family this morning. I would advise you to move, or I’ll start with you.” Alistair was normally so affable, disarming people around him with his charming grin or his wry sense of humor, that it became easy to forget he was a warrior, that once he had an ideal in mind, he would not deviate from it. His back was absolutely straight, drawing him up to his full height, which wasn’t inconsiderable, and one of his eyebrows had risen dangerously high, the last warning before he would unleash everything he was capable of doing so, and not just words alone. 

Somerled practically skipped out of the way. 

Líadan couldn’t blame him. Alistair could be intimidating when he so chose, but it wasn’t often he chose, or needed, to do so. It was part of why she liked him as much as she did. His guard captain now out of his way, Alistair set a brisk pace for the chantry, and Líadan kept up right beside him. Behind them, Thierry followed in a daze, and Somerled grabbed guards as they marched to put together an impromptu detail for the King’s trip to the chantry. Both he and Thierry paid no amount of attention to Alistair when he continued speaking quietly with Líadan. “So, you’re really all right? All of you, I mean? I don’t need to have someone fetch Wynne?”

“I’m fine, as far as I know.” And for many reasons she was happy she was, because she had a hard time imagining how Alistair—and not to say Malcolm—would have reacted if she or the unborn child had been harmed. Not after witnessing Alistair’s anger at just the threat of it, coupled with the other insults. 

“But the smite last time—”

“Compared to Renaud’s, this one was nothing.” She rubbed at her cheek, finally having felt the stiffness of dirt on it from earlier. The swipe of her fingers brought stinging to her skin where she hadn’t noticed the gravel had scraped it when the smite hit her. “Your smites are definitely stronger, and Malcolm’s are, too. The worst part was the fall, and only because I was holding Cáel and couldn’t catch myself properly.” Her shoulder throbbed to remind her of where she’d taken the brunt of it. She suspected that Wynne would have things to say to her, in the form of scolding, when she saw. From the look in Alistair’s unconvinced eyes, Líadan was sure she’d be sent Wynne’s way once the chance arose. 

A smug smile started curling at the corner of Alistair’s mouth. “And I bet that weakling Orlesian templar was all hopped up on lyrium, too. Goes to show how very unnecessary lyrium is to use those skills, no matter what the Chantry says, or what they make their templars believe.” He looked over his shoulder, toward the only Orlesian templar he was on friendly terms with. “Thierry? Orlesian or Warden?”

“Pardon?” Thierry seemed so absolutely baffled that Líadan truly felt sorry for him.

“I need a final answer on where your loyalties are. So I ask: are you Orlesian or a Grey Warden?”

Thierry nodded in understanding, if a slight one. “A Warden, Your Majesty.”

Alistair smiled. “Good. I was just starting to like you. Didn’t want to have to hurt you. And Hildur would’ve been pissed when she found out I maimed one of her new Wardens.” He nodded to himself. “Now that that’s settled, I need you to go find my brother and keep him occupied.”

“Me?” Poor Thierry had stumbled right back into being baffled. It was a peculiar talent of the Fereldan King that no one had warned him about.

“All right, good point.” Alistair sighed as he rethought his plan, and then snapped his fingers. “Oghren! Go find Oghren, and take Oghren with you once you do, and the two of you keep Malcolm occupied. I don’t care if you have to take him to a tavern and get him drunk, just keep him from charging into the chantry and impulsively doing something incredibly stupid. If he doesn’t know about Gunnar by now, he’ll know soon enough. Make sure he knows Cáel and Líadan really are fine, but for all the Maker’s creation, keep him _out of the chantry_.”

“As you say, ser.” Thierry rushed off toward the Warden compound without raising a single question as to the reasoning behind Alistair’s orders. Líadan wasn’t sure what to think about that, if Malcolm really hadn’t grown up as much as she’d thought in the past two years.

“Better safe than sorry,” Alistair said quietly to her, as if he’d deduced the direction of her thoughts. “He might not go off like a bolt from a half-cocked crossbow, but in case he does, like he would’ve done a couple years ago, I want to keep him from doing more harm than good.” He grumbled as they exited the Palace District and headed for the Market District, where the chantry was located. Guards rushed ahead to clear the way. “Not that I can guarantee civility in my own conduct. Or yours.”

“I’m not making any promises. I saw what—” Her breath caught there. Líadan didn’t have much to say that wouldn’t run the risk of sparking her temper yet again, so she said nothing. Alistair seemed to understand, dropping the subject and remaining quiet aside from cracking the odd joke to ease the building tension. They trekked across the Central Bridge and down Market Street, a mirror of the same walk Líadan had gone on only hours ago. As soon as she saw the spires of the chantry rising above the primarily stone buildings of the Market District, the threads of anger she’d managed to ignore wove their way back into her body and mind. Her muscles tightened in response, her shoulders tensed, and she had to pay more attention than was healthy in order to keep herself from stalking straight for the chantry. Willing herself not to glance over at the cobblestones where she’d last seen Gunnar, Líadan looked at Alistair. “Do we have a plan?”

“Not really. I was just going to throw you at them.”

She scowled and gave up on not stalking. If Alistair didn’t have a plan beyond getting them past the templars at the gate and at the doors, she’d just let go of her temper. Hopefully, enough shouting and invocation of ancient agreements would get the templars to cooperate. It had worked during the Blight, to an extent. Her fingers moved to touch the hilt of the borrowed dagger she had at her belt.

“Maybe literally,” said Alistair. 

She said nothing, aside from a quiet growl, one she would vehemently deny if asked later.

As it turned out, getting inside was almost disappointingly easy, after all that’d gone on before. Somerled had sent guards ahead who’d done the negotiating, and apparently relayed enough of a message, because the Knight-Vigilant was waiting for them.

“Standing with Andraste at his back?” Alistair said under his breath. “Not subtle at all.”

“Too bad I don’t care about subtlety,” Líadan said, pitched loudly enough that Ser Renaud would be certain to hear it, yet quietly enough that he could choose to pretend not to if he wanted to keep things civil. 

Renaud’s expression remained as hard as the ironbark the Dalish used to craft their strongest blades. “No, you do not, Warden,” he said to Líadan. “We will not be releasing the apostate to you. She is too dangerous. She murdered three men in broad daylight. She attempted to murder several of my templars. Even captured and told of her crimes, she remains without remorse for her actions. It would be irresponsible for us to release her to your custody, and so we will not.”

Líadan met his firm look with one of her own. “Right of Conscription.” Then she folded her arms over her chest. “So hand her over.”

“Yes, the right granted to the Grey Wardens after Dumat was slain at the Silent Plains.” Renaud’s tone shifted from the command of before to sounding like he were an elder giving a history lesson to children. “Granted so that the Wardens would always have sufficient recruits.” He lifted a finger. “But you forget—the Chantry had not yet been formed at that time. Though we generally follow convention, even when objections are made, such as in the case of the conscription of Fereldan’s current king, we are not bound to follow the Right. Even so—”

“You’re no exception. Stop quibbling and let her go.”

“Even so,” Renaud said, his volume beginning to rise once more, and sounding terribly put upon, “we shall still let her go—with a provision.”

“What? You want her out of the city? Fine. We’ll send her to the Vigil. Done.”

“I don’t care what you do with her or where you keep her after we remand her to the Wardens. The provision is that we must finish the Rite of Tranquility with the apostate before—”

“No, you will not.” The magic came unbidden to her fingertips, channeled through her body in a rush as powerful as the one that had allowed her to kill the templar who’d killed her mother, years ago. She would not allow this barbarism to continue; she would not allow one of the _elvhen_ who’d been protecting her people to become a mockery of life. A crackle alerted the non-templars to the surge of magic. The various priests and sisters and worshippers scattered among the pews, gasping at the blatant display. Líadan took a step forward, and then another, determined to stop these barbarians from harming Rhian. 

Swords rattled in scabbards as some of the Orlesian templars pulled them free and began to form up to flank Renaud. Líadan heard similar sounds from behind her, but ignored that she would be surrounded by enemies. Then she heard a whisper just behind and to her right: “We’re with you, Warden.” It took her a moment, but she recognized the voice as the young templar who usually had guard duty outside the chantry, when the Divine wasn’t in residence. She remembered him because he’d always seemed so impossibly _young_ , young enough that she’d commented to Malcolm about it. Young, but it seemed a good head on his shoulders that she hoped would stay there.

Through the shuffling of feet and shifting of weapons, Líadan heard Alistair shouting at his guards to get out of his way. Judging by his swearing, the guards weren’t obeying. “Sorry, Your Majesty,” said Somerled. 

“Oh, you don’t even _know_ sorry yet, Captain,” said Alistair.

She put them out of her mind and focused on Renaud. He was the danger here. He was the wild barbarian determined to be uncivilized by flouting accords a thousand years old. “I will not let you perform your barbaric act of Tranquility on her. The Grey Wardens invoke the Right of Conscription on her _now_ , as she is, still connected to the Beyond. You will not take—”

“You are not in a position from which to make any undue demands, Warden.” Renaud had yet to move, and even had an insouciant smirk forming on his lips. “I would suggest you accept our terms. Your recruit will be remanded to you in a few hours’ time, without fuss. Have patience. I’ll send a messenger when she’s ready for the transfer.”

“You will not take her soul!” was all Líadan could say in the common language before she was left with only Elvish invectives, and then lunged as Renaud turned. At the same time, a yell went up from Alistair, and as the smite from Renaud descended on Líadan, Alistair ran into her, sending her flying sideways and out of the smite’s path, taking the nearly full force of it himself. 

He exhaled sharply at the impact, but was otherwise unaffected and rolled quickly to his feet to face Renaud. “I will not allow you to put one of my subjects through the Rite of Tranquility without the proper review and procedure. Furthermore, should she even _be_ deemed enough a danger to warrant the Rite, it should be performed by the templars and mages at Kinloch Hold and not in a chantry with nary an enchanter to be seen. I will not allow the Orlesian Chantry to run roughshod over the rights of my subjects, highborn or low. You are in Ferelden. Ferelden follows the Right of Conscription, and you will hand the apostate over to the Wardens with all her abilities completely intact, including her connection to the Fade.”

Renaud slowly shook his head. “I find myself at the end of my patience, Your Majesty, and at the end of my ability to accede to demands made by those who are in no place to demand them.” His eyes flicked past Alistair and over to Líadan, who was slowly getting to her feet. Enough of the smite had caught her that her magic had been snuffed out, and she’d landed on the shoulder she’d hit that morning while protecting Cáel. “Perhaps you should see that your brother’s unborn bastard is unharmed after the excitement of today. Now, if you would excuse me, I have a Rite to which I need attend.”

Alistair stiffened just enough to betray to the witnesses present that what Renaud had said was true, even though he managed not to look back at Líadan. The murmurs, which had started at Renaud’s statement, became rampant at the reaction of the King. 

On her part, Líadan stared at a the pommel of the sword held in Andraste’s hand, which was right behind Renaud’s head. If she’d had any magic or energy left to expend on anything aside from remaining upright, she’d have done her best to see that head separated from its neck. But she didn’t want to collapse, and she certainly didn’t want to look anywhere and risk making eye contact with a single one of the onlookers in the chantry, so she settled for glaring at Renaud. It didn’t help. Panic rose in her chest, that she wasn’t ready to deal with this, not at all, and she was surrounded by humans who would not like it, and trapped in a chantry with priests and templars who did not like her. She wanted to run, but she had to remain, to keep Rhian from becoming an empty shell. 

“One more step and I will have you arrested, Knight-Vigilant,” Alistair said quietly.

Renaud did an about face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“No? Try me.”

Before Renaud could call Alistair on what Líadan knew was not a bluff, a woman, wearing the robes of a Chantry priest and the air of someone who expected to be obeyed, darted into the nave. She placed herself between Alistair and Renaud. “Stop this at _once_ ,” she said. “This is a place of peace.” She pointed at Renaud. “You may be the Knight-Vigilant, but you have no authority over internal Fereldan matters.”

“Grand Cleric—”

The woman didn’t allow Renaud to deter her. “Your apostate prisoner will be remanded to the Fereldan templars to deal with, and that will be final.”

Renaud looked personally affronted. “Grand Cleric Philippa, you have a poor understanding of Chantry hierarchy if you believe you’ve authority over the Knight-Vigilant.”

Philippa pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes opening wide in astonishment before narrowing in outrage. “You have no right—”

The chantry doors opened, cutting off the Grand Cleric, and silencing the crowd as all eyes moved to see who had dared enter. 

Mother Boann walked through, her robes streaked with blood and dust, her braids undone and ragged. She flinched on hitting the charged air in the nave, her gaze roving the vast room to find the cause of the tension. “Pardon my interruption,” she said slowly, yet the urgency in her tone unmistakable, “but I need the assistance of six strong sisters and brothers.”

“What for?” asked Alistair.

But Líadan already knew, and Mother Boann confirmed it. “To carry a body from the Alienage. Elder Valendrian could not be saved.”

“And another body rests at the feet of the apostate,” said Renaud, with enough triumph to draw glares from the majority of the crowd. “You see why her danger must be eradicated. Because you Fereldans cannot see the obvious standing in front of you, we shall take care of the matter. Then I will hand her over, as you have demanded.”

Mother Boann looked helplessly from the Grand Cleric to Alistair and back again, the conflict beyond her, and entirely unhelpful in resolving her own. Philippa blinked, and then motioned to a group of young brothers and sisters standing near a wall. “See to it Mother Boann is helped,” she said. “Take at least two templars with you. I doubt the Alienage is safe for humans.”

“Not safe for templars, maybe,” muttered one of the brothers, even as he strode toward the doors.

“Ours should be safe enough,” said another, and then he threw a look toward one of the Orlesians who still stood with his sword at the ready. “Them. They’re the problem.”

Some of the Orlesian templars—ones with swords still in their scabbards—who had initially made as if to volunteer to help, looked hurt at the condemnation. Ever briefly, it made Líadan wonder how much of the situation was the Knight-Vigilant’s fault, and not a personal failing on the part of every single Orlesian templar.

Mother Boann exited with her help, four templars instead of two clattering behind them. Another two slipped in from outside as the others left, and from Alistair’s nod, Líadan gathered them to be Fereldan, assuring the Fereldans inside didn’t lose their numbers advantage. Just in case. 

When the doors clicked shut, and the cavernous nave absolutely silent save the breathing of everyone present, Alistair spun, immobilizing Renaud with a glare, temper burning brightly in his normally friendly eyes. “Get out.” Alistair’s words came out so softly that they were hard to discern. 

Renaud, standing not ten feet away, cupped a hand around his ear and turned it toward the King. “I’m sorry?”

“Get out. Get out of my country. You’ve got your heads shoved so far up your arses that you can’t see a thing wrong with what’s happened. You interfered in a Fereldan Chantry matter. You took a Fereldan citizen accused of being an apostate off the street yourselves instead of allowing the Fereldan templars to do so.” Alistair advanced on the Knight-Vigilant, his anger finally having forced his body to believe it was engaged in combat. Instead of tension making his limbs stiff and gait jerky, his movements were smooth and loose, like a Grey Warden advancing on darkspawn. 

Líadan wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen Alistair this furious. She had to admit he looked and sounded very much like a king. Evidently, the rest of the crowd felt the same way, having kept their hushed silence, compelled by Alistair’s powerful presence to pay attention.

For the first time since she and Alistair had entered the chantry, some of Ser Renaud’s confidence slipped away, vanishing as one of his legs twitched backward. He swallowed, hesitating before he spoke. “Your Majesty—”

Alistair lifted his left hand while keeping his right hand, his blade hand, near the grip of his sword. “Shut up. I won’t hear another word out of you unless it’s a full, unconditional apology. I know it won’t be. You still have no clue what you’ve really done. Your men killed my brother’s mabari. Do you have any idea what that means for him? No, of course you don’t. You’re Orlesian; you still think mabari are just _dogs_.” His hand whipped out, gesturing around the room. “Yet even then, you’d think your men would have at least a modicum of respect for a wardog who lived through the Blight. A wardog who fought in the Battle of Denerim, where the Archdemon was defeated and a Blight ended.” His arm snapped back to his side. “But you don’t care. He was a dog. That’s all you see.” Alistair paused, cocking his head to the side as he appraised Renaud once more.

Under the King’s heavy scrutiny, the Knight-Vigilant took a step back. “Your Majesty—”

“I’m not finished.” Alistair took another step, and Renaud did the same in an attempt to maintain distance between himself and the angry king. But he bumped into the base of Andraste’s statue and could retreat no more. A smirk lifted a corner of Alistair’s mouth, a moment of triumph showing before his determination returned. “And that’s all you see Fereldans as, don’t you? Dogs, the lot of us. You thought nothing of smiting an innocent bystander in your pursuit of the apostate. A bystander who happened to be a Senior Grey Warden, one who _happened_ to have fought the Archdemon. And—”

“Your—”

Alistair stepped forward again, closing the distance to where he was a breath away from encroaching on Renaud’s personal space. “Interrupt me again and I will have you put in shackles until you’re escorted out of my country.” He paused, giving Renaud room to reply, were he that stupid.

Ser Renaud pressed his lips tightly together. It seemed one did not become a Knight-Vigilant of the Chantry by virtue of being stupid. That happened later, when their forced lyrium addiction turned toxic.

Alistair looked disappointed, and then continued his verbal public flogging. “And not only did your men not give a whit of respect for the Grey Wardens, they did not care, _you_ did not care, that this Warden happened to have my nephew in her arms. My nephew, Knight-Vigilant. The King’s nephew and current heir. Were you a Fereldan—and you’d better thank the Maker you’re not—you’d be in Fort Drakon, awaiting execution for treason.” He rubbed at his chin, glancing wistfully up at Andraste. “I’m still tempted.”

A few chuckles broke out in the crowd in the pews. 

“I say do it, Your Majesty,” one brave soul called out from a back row.

“No.” The word held regret, but was firm. “I will not cross a line that he leaps over without second thought. But Maker help me, if you so much as think about doing anything more than leaving this country by midday tomorrow, I will not hesitate to cross that line. As King, it’s my duty to protect my country and my family. Do not force my hand, Knight-Vigilant. Leave.” Then in stark contrast to his frown before, Alistair smiled at him. “The Divine is welcome to stay, if she so desires. Our quarrel is not with her, but with you and your so-called knights.”

Ser Renaud considered Alistair for a long, almost unbearable moment, the fingers of one hand resting on his sword belt, the fingers of the other plying at the pommel of his blade. A breath, and then he dropped his hands to his sides before he gave Alistair a slight nod. The gesture was barely there, but enough to appear contrite and obedient. Then he made eye contact with a templar nearby and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs behind the statue. “Fetch the apostate,” he said to her. Then he turned to another. “See that preparations are begun for our immediate departure. I will see that Her Perfection is informed of our change in plans.”

They waited. As the wait continued, the doors opened once again, this time admitting three Grey Wardens fully armed and clad in their armor. Thierry had his shield out, Bethany had a staff in her hands, and Oghren stood next to her, his axe resting on his shoulder. He gave the appearance of nonchalance, but Líadan knew Oghren would be battle-ready in a split second should he need to.  

She also wondered where Malcolm was, if Oghren and Thierry weren’t with him.

Swearing, shouting, and a scuffle heralded the arrival of Rhian. At her appearance, Knight-Commander Tavish pushed forward through a line of his templars. “I’ll take custody of the apostate, Your Majesty,” he said.

Alistair’s frown switched to Denerim’s Knight-Commander. “What? Were you even listening? The apostate’s been conscripted by the Grey Wardens. As in, apostate no longer, and no longer of your concern, mage or no.” He didn’t wait for Tavish’s acknowledgement before he waved Oghren and Bethany over and indicated a Rhian who’d been shocked into silence at hearing her fate. “I trust you can bring her to the compound?”

Oghren looked the new recruit up and down before giving Alistair a nod. “Aye. Long as you tell me the story later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of keeping it from you.”

“Good.” Oghren nodded, swung his head in Rhian’s direction, and then looked pointedly at the door. “What’re you waiting on? Let’s get out of this sodding place. Can’t figure how a building with ceilings so high gets so cramped and stuffy, but there you go. Worse than fifty deshyrs crammed into a back room at Tapsters.” As he waited for Bethany to collect Rhian, Oghren whispered to Líadan that Wynne was with Malcolm. Given that Wynne could petrify or encase Malcolm in ice if she needed, she made an even better person to keep him from rushing to the chantry. It almost made her feel better. She would’ve felt significantly better if she didn’t feel like she was going to collapse with exhaustion at any moment. Of _all_ the times for her exhaustion to return, it had to choose a time when she had an audience.

Alistair glanced at her, and then over her shoulder. Within moments, Thierry stood next to her, close enough that his arm touched her uninjured shoulder. “Lean on me enough so you won’t fall,” he whispered, his words masked from the others by Rhian’s loud exchange with Bethany and Oghren.

Líadan wanted to protest, but she knew if she refused, she would fall, and that would be worse. At least she could manage to lean on Thierry in such a way that it wouldn’t be noticed by others, or so she hoped.

After the wooden doors closed behind the two Wardens and their recruit, Renaud gave Alistair an expectant look.

“Go,” said Alistair.


	41. Chapter 41

“There once was a bard from Montsimmard, whose tongue was made of purest silver. His name was Corsa the Jackal, and he was famous for enchanting emperors and empresses by knowing exactly what to say to please them. This often got Corsa into trouble! ****

One day, Corsa was traveling to Val Royeaux where he was to press his silver-tongued words into Empress Necessiteuse’s ear. As he walked and rehearsed, a mighty storm blew in. Rain washed away the path, and Corsa became hopelessly lost. Chill set into his bones, so he took shelter in a cave.

But the cave was home to a big brown bear! Corsa drew his longbow, but the bear seized it. ‘I was just about to go out for dinner,’ said the bear. ‘Nice of you to drop by!’ He looked at Corsa and began to drool. 

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ replied Corsa. ‘I am old and stringy and not at all good to eat. Let me share your cave, and in the morning, I will gather honey and berries. You shall have a feast fit for kings!’

‘Agreed,’ said the Bear, ‘but go no further into the cave. You won’t like what you’ll find there.’

Corsa warmed himself by nestling into to the bear’s thick fur. The bear fell asleep, but Corsa was kept awake by what lay further in the darkness. Finally, he could no longer endure the mystery.

At the back of the cave, Corsa found a huge room. And in the middle of that room? An enormous dragon! ‘Mmm,’ said the dragon. ‘Food!’

‘Wait, wait!’ cried Corsa. ‘I am old and stringy and not at all good to eat. Let me leave, and I will bring you the bear.’

‘I think not,’ said the dragon. ‘That bear promised me breakfast!’ And that was the end of the Jackal.”

— _The Tale of Corsa_ from _Bedtime Stories for Good Children_ , by Sister Marigold

**Meghan**

****When Meghan found herself shouting at the healer, she decided it would be best to call it a day. As the healer strode away after an admonishment to keep up with her exercises, Meghan wondered if they should even bother to continue with this farce at all. Her hand had not improved, not in its ability to flex properly, or the strength of its grip. The weeks spent working with the healer had done nothing but waste time and coin on an empty wish. Her hand and arm would get no better, and she would never again be able to shoot a bow.

The sense of loss was profound, even though she’d only taken up the bow because she’d idolized her brother. As a little girl, she would have done anything to gain the brilliant smile of her next-oldest sibling, and did the best she could to do so. Archery was the first and only, for Sebastian had been sent away before she could find another hobby of his to take up. Which, in retrospect, was rather a good thing, given what she’d discovered of his proclivities once she was deemed old enough to know of such things.

And yet, even though she’d taken up the bow to be closer to her brother, it had been luck and Andraste’s blessing that gave her the ability of a fine archer. Something about it settled her, and so she kept it up after Grandfather passed away, and even after Sebastian had been given to the Chantry. At that point, archery had become integral to who she was as well as a personal connection to Grandfather and Sebastian that went beyond the ties of shared blood. She enjoyed how good she was at it, because unlike so many trappings of nobility, archery stood the chance of mattering.

The evil of man had stolen her skill with a boy, severing one of the connections she’d had left to her family as sure as the mercenary’s sword had severed the tendons and nerves in her arm. Caught without the bow as she’d been, her skill hadn’t mattered when it counted. She should have taken up the blade when she was given the opportunity to learn a martial skill. The blade would have been useful. The blade would have saved her arm and hand, and not left her with this mockery of what had once been hers.

She should be grateful, she knew. While she’d gotten away, albeit with a crippled hand, none of the others had managed to escape. In her place, they would have been glad of the relatively minor injury, for it would mean they were alive. Were they alive, she would have suffered a ruined hand in silence, if it had meant her family kept alive.

Meghan hadn’t even witnessed their deaths, having blundered onto the attack only by happenstance. She’d just happened to choose that night to try to convince the Grand Cleric to send her letters through to Sebastian just once. She’d been told no yet again, and had encountered the mercenaries on her quiet sneak back into the castle. 

For all her never really having seen what happened, the haunting of her imagination more than compensated for what she hadn’t witnessed, and turned her family’s deaths grotesque. The shriek from her mother, the lone sound from her family she’d heard, echoed constantly when her thoughts allowed. The silence afterward rang even louder. The wet crunch of her sword’s blade when—it had been the first time she’d wounded another human being, much less taken a life. She’d trained as an archer. An _archer_. In battle or practice, she stood far away. She would have done the same thing leading Starkhaven’s militia in Sebastian’s stead. Archers didn’t get close. Archers didn’t look into the eyes of the man or woman they killed. Archers didn’t feel their weapons cut into their enemies. Archers didn’t feel the puff of a last breath from the person they’d killed. Long after the battle was over, archers didn’t feel like they were being suffocated by the intimate memory of those final moments.

She needed some fresh air. Or, at least, air as fresh as a city could provide.

On her way out, she was stopped by a page bearing a message from the Chantry. When Meghan asked the slight girl which one, she gave Meghan a funny look and told her there was only one in Denerim. A half-smile on her face, Meghan gave the girl a silver for her troubles and sent her along. The letter was from the Denerim chantry, yes, but the wax seal bore the insignia of the Divine. Hope flared through Meghan before she could push it down, and she cracked open the seal.

Her petition for an audience with Regula I, the one made through Arlessa Isolde, had been denied. The Divine, tied up in complex matters with the Fereldan throne, had not the time to devote to Meghan’s most unusual petition—unusual in that Meghan had previously been declared dead, and the Divine would at least have to see the mistake corrects in the records. The Divine then extended an invitation for Meghan to bring her petition for an audience at the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux once Her Perfection had returned there from her travels. Kindly, the Divine informed her she’d also add Meghan to her daily prayers, as well as her family, as they were now at the Maker’s side. All in all, it was a lovely letter, and truthfully better than she could have hoped.

However lovely or nice, it did not _help_.

Meghan ripped the missive in half and tossed the remnants into the fire in the great hall. Leaving the parchment crumbling into ash behind her, taking her hopes with it, she exited the estate and its walls. The route she’d taken past the small fountain took her right into the large central market of the city, one she’d become well familiar with during her stay. But instead of the usual throngs of customers, pickpockets, and merchants, there was a crowd of guards, grumpy merchants finishing picking up their wares under the guards’ supervision, and a few templars speaking with the city guards.

The lack of a meticulous shine and no mind paid to the mud clinging to the boots of any of the three templars told her they were Fereldan and not Orlesian. An important distinction, she’d discovered. A far more important distinction here in Ferelden compared to the Free Marches, and woe betide the Marcher who failed to notice.

Behind the clump of guards and templars were two more city guards, one with a bucket, and another kneeling over a darker patch of the cobblestone. He scrubbed away, more somber than the rest. While the others weren’t exactly somber, they carried a certain lack of enthusiasm that couldn’t be accounted as boredom with their jobs. Meghan pursed her lips at the puzzling scene. 

Another guard appeared, this one wearing the colors of the Royal Guard. He directly approached the gathered templars and city guards, his expression just as somber as the man scrubbing at the cobblestones. 

“Any news?” one of the guards asked once the newcomer was close enough to hold a conversation without having to raise their voices.

“The mabari couldn’t be helped,” said the royal guard. “The enchanter said he’d most likely died soon as the shield’s point hit him. Split his spine, she said. Hit was hard enough to drive one jagged end into the wardog’s heart. Sad end, that.”

“They should face justice.”

“They will,” said another guard. “Even if they hadn’t killed the Prince’s mabari, they hit that Warden mistress of his with a smite while she was holding Prince Cáel. Can’t be treason for them to risk harming the babe prince, not being Fereldan, but I hear it’s a capital crime nonetheless.”

“You think Her Perfection would allow it?” the royal guard asked the closest templar. 

She shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s hard to predict, and so many of her Orlesian templars were lost at Highever that I’m not sure she’d allow more to be killed, even for a capital crime. Plus, there’s quite a few already in Fort Drakon for crimes they committed during their march to Highever.”

“Not right for them to get away with it.”

“No.”

Meghan could not disagree. Any threat to a direct heir to a throne, even from one who was not a subject, was a capital offense. She couldn’t think of a single place on Thedas where it wouldn’t be, and templars were just as subject to that law as any other.

“I heard the King already had a bit of a pissing match with the Knight-Vigilant,” said the third guard.

“Kicked him out of the country,” said the templar. “Told him to be out by tomorrow. Said the Divine could stay, though, since she turned out all right.”

The royal guard raised his eyebrows. “Think they’ll listen?”

“I would. You didn’t see the look on his face. I did.” He shuddered for effect. “Nice enough guy when he’s not mad, the King. But cross him, and you remember that he was a sodding Grey Warden before he took the throne.”

“Those Wardens he belonged to conscripted the knife-ears that set everything off,” said the second guard.

“If you’d seen her fight, you’d understand why,” said the guard holding the bucket.

The second guard frowned. “Still, she murdered nobles, I heard.”

“Did you hear who?” asked the first guard.

“No. Who was it?”

“Vaughan and his two lackeys. Can’t remember their names, but they were nearly as rotten as him. Good riddance. I say she did the city a favor. Man was a monster if any of those rumors about what he did to his servants was true.”

“They probably are,” said the guard who’d taken a break from scrubbing to sit back on his heels. “Guard-Captain Kylon had been trying to dig up evidence on the arl for ages. Guess she’s saved him a bit of work.”

“Someone should let the rest of the shiftless young lords and bastards know,” said the royal guard. “On my way here, I walked by the Gnawed Noble. Heard too much talk of a purge. That’ll boil over, I say. Riots over the whole city, maybe. People are mad enough about the Orlesians. Purge’ll just be an excuse. Besides, it isn’t like the elves deserve it. They already lost their elder in the fighting today. And, like you said, that apostate elf did Ferelden a favor by getting rid of Vaughan. King should give her a medal.”

“You work for him,” said the templar, the first hint of a smile on anyone’s face lifting a corner of her mouth. “You put in the request.”

“Yeah, no. His Majesty has a good sense of humor, but I’m not sure it’ll stretch that far.” He directly faced the templar who’d thus far been the only Chantry representative to speak. “Hey, you were there in the chantry when everything inside when down, right?”

“I was. Thought we’d get into another battle with Orlais, right then and there. Captain Somerled will get censured for sure. He kept trying to step between the King and the Knight-Vigilant, which really pissed the King off when the Knight-Vigilant and the other Orlesians started threatening Warden Líadan. She’d spent the whole time trying to conscript that city elf they’d taken as apostate, and the Knight-Vigilant wasn’t having any of it. Not that it made her give up, especially when he started to insist they’d make the apostate Tranquil before they have her to the Wardens. Sent the Warden into a right snit, and she started shouting at him in Elvish and being all Dalish before just lunging at him. I say she should’ve run him through at the outset, but what do I know?” The templar ended her story with a shrug. 

The guard who’d been scrubbing stood up and gestured to the bucket-holding guard. He dashed the rest of the water over the stones, and the two of them joined the gaggle of guards and templars. “But she didn’t run him through,” said the one still holding the bucket.

“Not for lack of trying,” said the templar. “The King managed to get past Captain Somerled and the other royal guards and pushed the Warden out of the way of the Knight-Vigilant’s smite. Maker knows what the Orlesians would’ve done if the smite had hit her. Maybe make her Tranquil, too?”

The lone royal guard blinked. “Can the Chantry even do that? Make Wardens Tranquil?”

A second templar shrugged. “I imagine we could make anyone Tranquil, even non-mages. It cuts people off from the Fade. For a mage, that means no more magic, and no more dreaming. For a non-mage, I think it’d mean no more dreaming. But I doubt the Wardens would be happy if the Chantry touched one of theirs. Most of us have seen the mages fight the darkspawn, if not afield, then here in Denerim during the Blight. Can’t imagine the Wardens wanting any of that darkspawn-killing power blunted. Nope. Chantry can’t risk pissing off the Wardens like that. Not if they were in their right minds.”

One of the guards stopped fiddling with the scrub brush and asked, “And if they weren’t?”

“It would be stupid,” said the first templar. “Besides, could you _imagine_ what Prince Malcolm or even King Alistair would do if the Orlesians made Warden Líadan Tranquil? Talk about heads rolling. She fought side by side with them through the Blight. They don’t take that sort of bond lightly, you know.”

“Not the only bonding the Prince does with her,” said the third templar. To Meghan, he looked impossibly young, young enough that the light stubble on his cheeks seemed out of place.

The first rolled her eyes at him. “You don’t even care, not really. You’re just jealous.”

“I have _eyes_ , I’ll have you know. No red-blooded man, or even some women, can fault him. But I’ll have to console myself with gazing from afar whenever they walk past my post. A man can dream, but only one man gets to live it.”

“That rumor true?” the royal guard asked the first templar. “The one I hear that came from the Knight-Vigilant during that whole confrontation?”

The templar frowned. “Which? The ones that have her pegged as the Prince’s mistress? Of course that’s true. Everyone knows it. You even heard it confirmed just now.”

He shook his head. “No, I know that one. I _am_ a Royal Guard, if you recall. I meant the one that says she’s with child. _His_ child.”

Meghan stood up straight. Arl Eamon would have kittens if he heard, and if it proved to be true, he’d have _litters_ of them.

The first guard raised his eyebrows. “What? That’s a new one.”

The woman templar gave him a nod. “The Knight-Vigilant said—”

Her explanation was cut off by an approaching guard, his auburn hair streaked with dirt, and a patch of dried blood on his clean-shaven cheek. “Oy! You lot! Stop dawdling and get back to work! We need to get this market back to rights by yesterday!”

The majority of the guards snapped to attention, then rushed to their tasks.

As Meghan turned to walk back to Arl Eamon’s estate, she heard the Guard-Captain threatening to call Knight-Commander Tavish on the loitering templars. She needed to get back to the estate. If any of what she’d heard were even remotely true, Eamon must have heard it by now. And if what the guards said about a purge being organized by the younger, lesser nobility were true, she had to get Eamon to use his influence to put a stop to it. Those elves, unprotected by true alienage walls, needed closer watch and better guardianship.

When Meghan had been taught the word ‘apoplectic’ during her schooling, she’d wondered how a person could be conscious and yet exhibit the symptoms of a stroke, as the word ‘apoplexy’ meant in its literal meaning, and not the colloquial. Then, as a young woman, she entered the Guerrin estate to find Arl Eamon.

Now she knew.

 _This_ was apoplectic. She heard him before she reached the great hall, and the scattering of servants through the corridors like flocks of birds flying from danger. “I warned him!” she heard him yell as she slipped into the large room. So, he’d heard. Obviously. Eamon didn’t notice her appearance, but Isolde, resting in one of the overstuffed armchairs, acknowledged her presence a nod and look of sympathetic apology. 

Eamon hadn’t stopped his ranting. “I warned him over and over and look what he’s done! Not even human this time! A sodding elf!”

Meghan frowned at the curse.

“Perhaps the rumors are only that, husband.” Isolde folded her hands over her belly that seemed to grow each day. “Rumors. You know how rumors can spread from mere conjecture. Besides, they are Grey Wardens, no? Not many Wardens are known to have children with other Wardens.”

“It’s still not completely out of the question.” Eamon halted his pacing, rubbing at his closely trimmed beard. “Though, the witch did require use of magic to get her own child from him, and the child from the Antivan Warden. While I do believe the boy irresponsible, he couldn’t be so stupid as to actively try for a child with the elf.”

“She is Dalish,” said Isolde. “Their imperative to remain with their own kind is even stronger than that of city elves. They would not want to bear a human’s child, not even one from nobility or royalty. They would actively prevent it, if nothing else, yes? Rumors, husband. Nothing more.”

He didn’t look convinced, though some of the ire did fade from his expression. “I’ll have to ask him directly, just to be sure. Maker knows Theirins need less magic in their line, not more, even if the child would be a bastard.”

Knowing from her stay at the arl’s estate that Eamon could go on for hours—literally—about magic in royal and noble lines, Meghan spoke up to change the subject. “Have you heard the other rumors, my lord?”

Eamon pressed at his face with the heel of his hand, looking every year of his age. “I’m not sure, there are so many. To which do you refer?”

“Plans for a purge of the Alienage, Elven Quarter, whatever it is you call it here in Denerim where the elves reside. Plans made by the younger adults and bastards of the lesser nobility. Were this Starkhaven, I would have put a stop to such a thing. It is below us, to allow people to die out of a misplaced desire for revenge.”

“One of the elves involved, an apostate, no less, did kill the Arl of Denerim and two lesser lords.” He leaned against one of the wooden tables.

Isolde cleared her throat. “You had heard of Arl Vaughan’s peculiarities, had you not?” she asked Eamon. “I know many have been searching for hard evidence for quite some time in order to bring an arrest to stop his behavior. He terrorized his servants, husband. Our own have mentioned it more than once. While I am not one for vigilante justice—I believe that’s the Fereldan expression—he may have deserved his fate. The things he’s said to have done are nothing short of horrific. I do not think the elves deserve a purge, in this case.”

“And their elder was killed during the fight,” said Meghan. “They’ve paid a price, if you feel one is required.”

Eamon nodded, and his troubled eyes became saddened. “I also heard the Orlesians killed Malcolm’s mabari in the ensuing capture of the apostate.” He shifted and pressed his hands flat on top of the table, the tips of his fingers white from the force he exerted. “How _dare_ they.”

Meghan raised an eyebrow, curious at the arl’s reaction. “You would consider a mere dog’s death more angering than the death of an alienage’s elder?”

Eamon’s eyes flashed with indignance. “I forget, you are not from here. You would not understand the nature of the mabari.”

She’d thought her comment would bring him to understand that an elf’s life was at least greater in value than a dog’s, but it seemed she’d only angered him further. Fereldans sometimes made no sense at all. “Clearly.”

“Mabari are prized for their intelligence and loyalty,” said Eamon, apparently determined to instruct her about Fereldans and their dogs. “They are no mere dogs, not as the rest of Thedas believes. They’re far more intelligent than that, and have a noble lineage as descendants of the wolves that accompanied the hero Dane. For a mabari who battled against darkspawn with the Grey Wardens through the Blight to be struck down as he was is an insult. Yes, Valendrian’s death was a tragic misfortune, but not an Orlesian insult, which is why one provokes my anger, and the other does not.”

“And if the purge were to happen?”

“Tragic, and a great misfortune to the elves of Denerim.”

“Then perhaps you could stop it? I have no power here, but you do.”

“It would not be good for the city, if there were a purge,” said Isolde. “Many servants would be killed, as well as the simple, yet necessary workers.”

Eamon sighed. “I will do what I can. Denerim need not be disrupted any more than it has in recent years. I’ll see a purge stopped, short of me bodily standing in front of those who would attempt one.”

**Morrigan**

****Though stunned at the loss of most of her magic through her own folly, Morrigan immediately assented when Airmid asked if she wanted to see Arlathan for herself. The small woman led the three humans out of the dusty room and down a corridor to exit the building. Once outside, they found the building was partially inset into a hill that stood over most of an ancient city. The city’s lines were reminiscent of elven ruins Morrigan had seen during the Blight or had stumbled upon in her childhood in the Korcari Wilds. The city spread out below them should have felt alien to her, a city a thousand years removed from her own time, yet it did not.

 ****Arlathan felt familiar. She had seen the design of the tall, elegant stone buildings before. She had seen many a neglected, broken down city wall in the Wilds. Fields of crops surrounded the immediate area outside the fallen walls, the same crops Morrigan had seen Fereldan farmers raise outside the Wilds. It felt familiar, until she looked at the sky.

 ****The hazy sunlight came in at the wrong angle, diffused just a bit more than normal, and yet the air around them seemed an acceptable, even pleasant, temperature. The crops in the fields were lush, proving the light was at least sufficient enough for food. But outside the comforting setting of Arlathan was the essence of _Setheneran_ , a strange combination of what felt like the Fade, but resembled Thedas at first glance. It even maintained its resemblance when she settled her gaze upon it. It wasn’t until she looked away that it became... off, somehow, in a way that she could not name. 

She became unsettled, just a little. She had expected to find a total sense of safety here, yet the environmentthat surrounded Arlathan did not feel _right_. She could not yet say whether or not it was a danger, but it bore watching.

“The stonework has not weathered as it should have in a thousand years,” said Nathaniel. “If this is truly Arlathan.”

“This is Arlathan, human,” Airmid said in an Elvish accented very differently from what was heard on Thedas. A defensive edge had also appeared in Airmid’s tone for the first time since they had encountered her. Understandable, given Nathaniel’s insult.

When Nathaniel gave the elf a puzzled and disconcerted look, Morrigan realized he did not speak Elvish as she did. 

“He does not speak our language,” Airmid said to Morrigan, not yet switching back to the common tongue. 

Morrigan twitched in want to cross her arms, having grown impatient over not finding out exactly what fate her future held. “No.”

“The others will not deign to speak the trade tongue. I do and I will, because I am a scholar. But if he expects the others to speak the trade tongue for his benefit, they will not, despite the rules of hospitality. They— _we—_ will refuse to speak the language of those who required such sacrifice of so many of our people.”

Morrigan lifted a brow, impressed at the will and defiance of these Arlathan elves, so very different from their cowering, city-dwelling descendants. “He will learn, if he is to stay.”

Airmid smiled, one that reflected in her eyes. “I suspect we all have much to learn from each other.” Then she returned to the common tongue. “Come. I should bring you to the others. I’m certain my father and Elder Tuirenn would like to speak with you. Perhaps even the entire council. I believe we would all be interested to learn of the fates of those left behind to hold against Tevinter.”

“Do not be so certain you wish to hear it,” Morrigan said as she followed Airmid down the finely carved steps. Cianán had calmed from his earlier disquiet, and now chose to gawk at the city around them. He would need to be fed soon, however. She would have to watch for signs so that he did not have a fit at an inopportune time.

Nathaniel stepped quickly to walk beside her, his lips pressed tightly together in frustration before he brought himself to say what was on his mind. “They speak Elvish like the Dalish do.”

Morrigan dismissed his frustration and chose to observe the city around them instead. “They will not change what language they speak to suit your whims.”

“Wanting to understand someone is not a whim.”

“You wish to understand them? Learn. It is not their duty to accommodate you.”

“They know the common tongue. It was spoken long before Arlathan was said to have fallen.”

“They do not wish to use the language spoken by their enemies.” An admirable stance, Morrigan thought. It also left potential enemies to guess at their intentions, if they could not understand them.

The frustration continued to show through Nathaniel’s usual deceptively calm demeanor. “Do you think it would help to remind them that the dwarves were the ones who came up with the common tongue? It was created to engender trade amongst all the races, not to oppress anyone.”

“It would be wise to keep those thoughts to yourself, lest you announce it and find yourself killed for your impertinence.” The idea pleased her, and she amended her statement. “On second thought, tell them. It would save me the trouble.”

“I wouldn’t advise doing so,” Airmid called over her shoulder, using the trade tongue. “Murder here means exile.”

“To where?” asked Nathaniel, making a show of looking around at the nothingness beyond the edges of Arlathan.

“Exactly.”

“Ah.”

Perhaps his mind was not as hopeless as Morrigan had thought. They lapsed into silence as they walked along a road not tread upon by humans for hundreds of years. The buildings around them were in good repair, and to Morrigan’s surprise, shared many elements found in Tevinter design. It seemed the Tevinters had stolen more than just magic from the ancient elves—they’d taken their architecture, too. The soaring arches incorporated into almost every building’s design made the city cohesive and elegant, instilling a comforting sense of order within one’s soul. And unlike the ruins left scattered throughout Thedas, the ancient city was full of life.

Elves strolled everywhere, easily the largest gathering of _elvhen_ Morrigan had ever witnessed. Before this, the greatest number of Dalish elves she’d seen gathered had been at an Arlathvhen her mother had brought her to witness. Here in Arlathan, without the ages of persecution at human hands, some elves gave them curious looks, others glowered, a few raised eyebrows, and the rest paid them no heed at all as the newcomers walked behind Airmid. A city teeming with elves and not a human to be seen, aside from her own small party, and yet Morrigan felt something else was strange about it. Not because she thought the People deserved their place in Thedas society—though she had much to say about how they refused to _do_ anything about their plight, much like the Circle mages—but because of something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It bothered her the entire way through a busy market quarter, and then it hit her as they passed the last stall. 

There were no children.

During the Blight, as they trudged or rode back and forth across Ferelden, in every hamlet, village, town, and city they’d been through, children had been constantly around. She had ignored them, and the blasted mabari had insisted on rounding them up to play. Children: loud and dirty, questioning and curious, filled with tears and snot and trouble. Once, she would have thought raising one not worth the effort. The thought was no longer so.

Her hand rested briefly on Cianán’s head before she asked, “Where are the children?”

The question brought Airmid to a halt, and then she slowly turned to face her. “They grew up.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes were pained.

“Are your people incapable of producing more?”

The pain did not retreat from Airmid’s deep green eyes. “Physically, we’re able. However, with the limited space we have in which to live, along with the limited amount of food we can grow to sustain our population, controlling our numbers became a precedent. Once we realized that we had regained our immortality, meaning none would die to make room for new, the decision was made to hold off from any procreation. We will not die here, so we need not make the effort to replace ourselves.”

The reasoning made no sense to Morrigan, because it wasn’t like the elves of Arlathan hadn’t dealt with this very situation before—until she recalled their inability to make use of _uthenera_. Then it made perfect sense, and yet it seemed unnatural for an entire people to forego reproduction. Even _Flemeth_ reproduced more than once over the course of a millennium, her own methods of prolonging her life aside. Individuals, for whatever perfectly valid reasons, could and would choose not to have children, but an entire society doing the same? It felt unnatural, having no children underfoot. 

It bothered her. If she remained here, as she knew she must, Cianán would grow up much the same as she had grown up in the Korcari Wilds—wonderfully educated, yet painfully alone. Certainly, there would be more adults, more than she had in only Flemeth, almost a complete society, something she had sorely lacked. Yet, it wasn’t complete without children, loath as she was to say.

Morrigan had been lonely as a child, even if she had once insisted to Malcolm that she had not been. Now her son would experience the same, and she did not like it.

“Is that the price of your immortality?” asked Nathaniel.

“Some would call it too high a price.” Airmid plummeted downward in painful memory of what was lost. “The Beyond, and therefore the long sleep, as I said before, is denied us aside from that tenuous thread. We went from being able to enter the Beyond at will to neither lyrium nor blood nor even normal sleep allowing us full access. We dream, yet our dreams are not malleable. The only way we even know that we yet still touch the Beyond is because we are able to use our magic on occasion, and that we dream, even though it is broken.”

Then there was a hope that Flemeth would not be able to plague her dreams here, Morrigan realized. More than a little, she looked forward to sleep. She looked forward to dreams that were not of the Blight, dreams where she was not hunted by her mother. Yet, she had to be careful not to hope too much, lest she allow such weakness to undermine her plans. Her own folly had done enough damage as it was.

Airmid cut across a temple square, past a line of guards clad in armor Morrigan had seen only in passing, as an artifact held in a Dalish camp. Behind the guards soared a temple as tall as the Tower of Ishal, but more organic, soaring with the sky rather than piercing it. Temple guards, she realized. The polished and shining armor, looking bright and new, was startling compared to the worn, dull armor the Dalish Keeper had shown her long ago. 

“What do they guard?” asked Nathaniel.

“Pardon?” asked Airmid.

“Those guards. You’ve no enemies here. You left them all behind.”

“They’re temple guards.”

Nathaniel frowned at the explanation. “I thought your gods had been locked away. So, what do they guard?”

She shrugged. “The way back, I suppose. The old ways. The days when the Creators spoke to us. They will be there to greet them, should they ever break free.”

“If they were true gods, they would have broken free already,” said Morrigan.

Airmid halted to face Morrigan, mere steps from one of the guards. “Not all prisons are made of materials such as silverite and dragonbone, ironbark and white steel. Sometimes, prisons are so clever that they are invisible, for they are of our own making.” Without waiting for Morrigan to reply, Airmid signaled the guard at the end of the line, and gave him a line of instructions spoken in rapid Elvish that Morrigan could not discern. He nodded and trotted off. Then Airmid returned her look to her inadvertent charges before sweeping her hand toward the other side of the square. “Come. The temple guard will summon the Council. We have much to discuss, it would seem.”

At the mercy of Arlathan, Morrigan could do nothing but follow.


	42. Chapter 42

“The mabari is clever enough to speak, and wise enough to know not to.” ****

— _Fereldan proverb_

**Alistair**

****He was hiding. If Alistair could have gotten away with lying, he never would’ve admitted to it, not even to himself. But there it was. The King of Ferelden, hiding in the Grey Warden compound, out of the sight of a creature more fearsome than an archdemon.

At least the Archdemon had a _reason_ for being dreadful.

Wanting to put his own cowardice out of his head, Alistair decided he’d go cheer up his brother, either with jokes and laughing, or a fistfight, or both. On his way there, he literally ran into the newly made Warden. She plowed straight into him, and then she had the audacity to get mad at him for it. She snarled—snarled!—at him, poked him in the chest, and then stalked off. 

What was it with his brother and his penchant for being surrounded by dangerous, _angry_ women?

Alistair at least kept them to one at a time. Even then, it was too much. Honestly, they could’ve just thrown Anora in a snit at the darkspawn at Ostagar, and the battle would’ve been won. Void take it, the Archdemon would’ve caught sight of her and fled into the dark depths of the Deep Roads forever. If today were a good measure, Alistair would’ve been right behind him.

When Anora had congratulated him on his throwing the Knight-Vigilant out of the country, Alistair had assumed she’d meant it. With how she’d been thus far today, a niggling voice in the back of his mind insisted it was a trick. Then a dissenting, confident voice declared that if Anora had been angry about not getting in on the kicking Orlesians out of Ferelden action, Alistair would most assuredly know. Except that Anora was in a temper, and Alistair couldn’t think of a single other thing he’d done that would result in this sort of reaction. His response had been to hide, because he was all about things such as ‘self-preservation’ and ‘surviving.’

The new Warden very much gone, Alistair dusted himself off and resumed his search for his brother. After a nod at Kennard outside the door, his search ended in his finding Malcolm in the room he shared with Líadan, sitting on the floor, with Cáel and Revas nearby. Malcolm looked up as soon as he heard Alistair’s approach, and gave him a tight smile before saying to Cáel, “I’d tell you to say hello to Uncle Alistair, but you’re too busy gnawing on my boot.”

Alistair had thought Anora’s lady-in-waiting had been _kidding_ when she said babies were like puppies. But like he’d seen when Adalla was a pup, everything was a chew toy to Cáel, even though he was human.

“Really,” said Malcolm. “Gnawing on my boot?” He flung an accusatory glare at the mabari in the room. “Was it you who taught him this? Because, need I remind you, he’s a human baby, not a mabari puppy.”

Revas tilted her head toward Cáel, as if she were saying, _he looks perfectly content with it._

“Do you know where that boot’s been?”

Revas’ look was decidedly flat. _In the pup’s mouth_.

Malcolm, as if he’d just recalled exactly where and what the boot had been in, quickly bent to remove the boot from his son’s determined grasp. Cáel let out an indignant yell, and followed it up with a wail at having his new toy taken away. Revas helped by bringing over a sock and dropping it in front of Cáel. It worked; the boy quieted and began to experiment with the sock. Malcolm sighed, seeming despondent. “That was my last clean sock. But I suppose it’s worth the sacrifice for you not to be yelling.” Then he directed his attention to Revas. “Thank you. Worth the drool.”

She sat on her haunches and huffed at him.

Malcolm huffed right back. “Oh, you do not know more than I do about babies. Don’t even start.” After another scowl at the mabari, he looked up at Alistair. “Out of purely academic curiosity, how long does darkspawn blood stay in something like, say, boot leather?”

“I’m... not sure, actually. Never really thought about it.” Alistair couldn’t quite figure out if his brother was playacting with the despondency to tease the mabari, or if his grief was starting to grow into what it’d been like during the Blight. He hoped for the former. While Malcolm was certainly entitled to his grief, the grieving back then had seemed to go on forever. Not that he had much leg to stand on in that regard, but still. He hoped they’d both matured since then.

“Maybe we should ask Hildur. You know, just in case something didn’t come out with the last cleaning.”

“Maybe _you_ should ask Hildur. I’m staying out of it.” Alistair had no intentions of inviting more opportunities to get yelled at. He had enough of that as it was.

“If you could not expose him to the darkspawn taint, Your Highness, that would be nice,” said Kennard. “I don’t want to be blamed for it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you,” said Alistair.

Kennard grunted. “Not convinced it’ll save my hide, Your Majesty.”

It was Alistair’s turn to scowl. “You’re probably right.” Had to be, with the tear Anora had been on. He couldn’t even imagine what she’d do if she found out the only heir had the blight sickness and it’d happened when he, Malcolm, and Kennard were supposedly right there. Maker, when she’d found out the danger some of the Knight-Vigilant’s Orlesian templars had put Cáel in, she’d come the closest Alistair had ever heard her get to shouting. Anora, as a rule, did not raise her voice. She did not shout, she did not yell, and she most certainly did not scream. If she decided she needed to be forcefully heard, she _projected_. And when Anora had heard about Cáel and Líadan and how Alistair had unleashed his temper on the Orlesians without so much as inviting her, she’d very much _projected_ her displeasure onto him. Well, for all of five minutes. Then there’d been the congratulations and her saying she was proud of him, and then her voice had gotten that certain tone, and the rest of the night had been spent in other pursuits. Pursuits, he belatedly realized, he should not be thinking about while in the company of his brother and nephew. “I think it’d end with all of us hanging together,” he said to Kennard. “No Warden option for us since we’re already Wardens. Right to execution.”

“Speaking of, you meet the new Warden yet?” Malcolm asked.

Alistair flinched. “ _Maker_.”

Malcolm chuckled, most of the amusement reflecting in his eyes, but not all. “I see you have.”

“Do the words ‘worse than Velanna ever was’ mean anything to you?” Alistair, figuring they’d be talking for a while, and wanting to interact with his nephew, found himself a seat on the floor. 

“Of course they do,” Malcolm said after his brother sat down. “Some of us don’t get to hide in the palace like you do.”

“Funny. I thought this was my hiding place.”

“Ducking an attack from a company of squabbling banns again? It’d have to be the irresponsible ones who’re bothering you. The good ones are back in their respective bannorns, helping bring in the harvest, and preparing for winter. So don’t feel any guilt for ignoring the ones after you.”

Alistair sighed and leaned against the wall. “I wish.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, silently asking him to go on.

He did. “Anora is... frightful today.” There was a snort from Kennard outside, and Alistair glared in his direction before continuing. “I decided it would be best if I made myself scarce when she acted like she was going to throw a shoe at me, followed by, oh, I don’t know, a dagger or three. Even Adalla seemed confused and mostly stayed quiet in a corner of the room.”

“Told you mabari are smart.” Malcolm tilted his head. “So what’d you do?”

Alistair threw his hands up. “That’s just it! I have no idea. None. I can’t come up with a single thing. I’m sure hiding today will be put on that intangible list I can’t seem to find, but that’s all I’ve got. Hence hiding. Hiding here, because then I can possibly blame coming here on talking to you about... stuff.” He dangled the offer to talk there to see if Malcolm would take it.

His brother took it. Sort of. “Stuff?”

It would do. “You know, grieving. Like you are. But I have noticed you aren’t wallowing in it. Or anything in it, really. Like it hasn’t happened at all.” He barely kept himself from flinching when he added the last part, because he was prodding at the edges of a very painful wound talking like he was.

Malcolm slowly looked over at him, and then raised an eyebrow. “You want me to mope? Burst into tears? Languish in a pit of despair?”

“No?” The snippy response wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting, though he wasn’t sure what he _had_ been expecting, to be honest. “I mean, if you want to, by all means do so. You just seem to not be reacting at all, and it’s a bit unnerving.”

His brother’s expression didn’t change. “I cry myself to sleep every night.”

“Really?”

“No.” Malcolm rolled his eyes, which really didn’t support his statement that followed. “I’m not an overemotional, overly dramatic teen anymore. Yes, I lost my mabari. Yes, it does suck and it hurts. However, I can deal with it, in an adult way. Because I’m a responsible adult.”

Alistair lifted a questioning eyebrow, while Revas gave Malcolm the dog version of the same skeptical look.

“Mostly responsible. I’m not old and kingly, like you.” He looked over at Revas. “Or a wise mabari like you.” Then he settled onto the floor, his head on his arm. Cáel leaned over to him, well, toppled over, really, Alistair thought. Then Cáel began to pat Malcolm on the face, mostly smacking him on the eyes.

He supposed that was affection, of a sort. Possibly. It was hard to tell with babies, just like it was hard for him to tell exactly how old his nephew really was. They were very confusing. And small. But his brother and Líadan seemed to be doing just fine with Cáel, and for an infant who had, in recent months, lost his birth mother, and then the woman who’d nursed him since birth, Cáel seemed to be content and happy. Nuala had explained it was because babies usually adjusted fairly fast and their memories were short. Alistair took her word for it, just happy that what family he had seemed to be doing all right.

Well, aside from the Orlesians having threatened Líadan and her and Malcolm’s unborn child, almost hurt Cáel, and killed his brother’s mabari. Alistair was mostly convinced that Malcolm was as fine as he insisted, but he also knew how attached Malcolm had been to Gunnar. So, it didn’t follow that his brother would have such a _non_ -reaction to losing him. After the blow-up in the chantry, Alistair had gone with Líadan to tell Malcolm about Gunnar, but he’d already overheard the staff talking about it. Even then, he hadn’t reacted outwardly, just soldiered on. Alistair didn’t dispute the possibility that Malcolm might’ve dealt with his grief privately, but seeing such a significant difference from the last time Malcolm had experienced such a deep loss, it left Alistair concerned.

Right now, however, he seemed perfectly fine, and Alistair didn’t feel like ripping the field dressing off a healing wound. It led to punches in the face from the wounded person, and he didn’t much feel like getting hit today. 

Malcolm dodged one of Cáel’s hands to maneuver one of his own hands up to the top of a nightstand to grab an opened letter, the wax seal still clinging to an edge. “Thought you might like to see this. I suspect you’ll be getting a message soon, if it hasn’t already arrived.” He extended the letter for Alistair to take.

With another wary look, Alistair accepted the piece of parchment, immediately noting the sunburst impression of the Chantry in the golden wax. “Dare I ask what this is?”

“It’s an apology from the Divine,” said Malcolm, sounding no more moved by it than he was by putting on socks in the morning. “I figure I’ll add it to the collection of other ones I’ve gotten from a bunch of Orlesian templars. I admit, the number of them who came forward surprised me, and the ones who ventured here to speak face-to-face before they left for Orlais surprised me even more. Her Perfection, however, thought it best she not deliver it in person considering how the last in-person apology went.”

Alistair skimmed the letter, intending on doing a more in-depth reading of it later. It was just as Malcolm said it was—Divine Regula’s apology for what had occurred to Malcolm’s family and his mabari, her expressed condolences, and the discipline she’d handed down to the templars involved. All were stripped of their knighthood. Some, such as the two who’d killed Gunnar, had been expelled from the Order. The others had been sent to start over as initiates, no matter what their ages and terms of service. “The Divine wasn’t really who we had a problem with, in the end,” he said to Malcolm. He’d honestly felt bad for Regula once he caught on that she was becoming feebleminded, and not actually engaging in anything underhanded. Ser Renaud, however, was another case. Her Perfection had explained to him before they’d left that Renaud would be retiring once they returned to Val Royeaux, because she believed he was suffering from a psychosis resulting from a lifetime of taking lyrium. The moment the Divine had said that, almost each one of Renaud’s actions made complete sense to Alistair. It didn’t make them any less infuriating or abhorrent, but at least there was a reason behind them beyond the obvious.

“Are you forgetting the whole bit about her sending an army of her templars marching on Highever? And then the part where she annexed part of Highever’s land?” asked Malcolm.

Of course now would be the time Malcolm decided to be argumentative. “Well, yes, but she apologized and meant it. Besides, she even tried to give the land back as much as she could. She handed over construction responsibilities and the running of the eventual chantry to Ferelden.”

Malcolm shrugged, unmoved. “Her actions still remain. People died. Granted, probably more due to her dementia than her ill will, but they’re no less dead.” He chuckled, but it lacked mirth. “What I’d really like to see is an apology from Renaud.”

“You won’t. He was forced to retire. Lyrium. So even if you got a letter of apology from him, I doubt it would be coherent.” Alistair was relieved enough to have the tensions at least momentarily stalled that he didn’t want to get himself worked up over it again, not so soon. Nothing truly had to be addressed until the Divine reached Val Royeaux, and that wouldn’t be for a few more days at the earliest. Added that most of the lords and ladies of the Landsmeet were attending to their bannorns, arlings, and teyrnirs with the harvest, he couldn’t consult with the Landsmeet, either. Of course, that also meant the nobility’s mixed reactions to Líadan’s condition had been less concentrated. As much as they liked to argue, the needs of their holdings came first for most of them. They wouldn’t have another Landsmeet to address matters until after winter had passed. So, Alistair gave himself permission to relax while he could.

“You seem awfully fine with all this,” said Malcolm, who had obviously noticed.

Unlike his brother, Alistair knew he’d had his say to the Knight-Vigilant, and had felt significantly better once the Divine and Ser Renaud and all their staff had left, heading back to Orlais. He might have even heaved a sigh of relief while secretly watching the departure from the docks, hidden under a large cloak. Malcolm hadn’t been given the chance for that sort of emotional release, and it showed in how much his brother hid it from himself.

“I did get to yell,” he finally said, not really wanting to get into the details of why he hadn’t done more than just boot the Knight-Vigilant from Ferelden, much as he’d wanted to, which had been a lot, plus a lot more on top of it.

Malcolm opened an eye and gave his brother a surprisingly effective baleful look for just one eye. “You didn’t let _me_.”

“It was for your own good. You would’ve done more than yell.”

“You almost did more than yell, I heard.”

“Possibly.” Then he relented. “All right, yes. But it was warranted, and I had to be provoked way more than they would have to get to you, because they’d already provoked you. Just how close did Wynne come to actually petrifying you?”

Malcolm grumbled, rolled onto his back, and put Cáel on his chest. “She _did_ petrify me.”

“And you were going on about being grown up!”

“Alistair, they’d killed my dog. He lived through Howe’s massacre, through the Blight, through the Battle of Denerim, only to be killed by an ass of an Orlesian templar during a time of supposed peace. Granted, he’d been protecting Líadan.” He sighed. “She told me later that Gunnar seemed slower in that fight, like he’d lost a step since the Blight. I mentioned it to the Kennel Master, and he said that Gunnar had already lived a fairly long life for an active wardog. Especially a wardog who’d been exposed to the darkspawn taint as much as he had. If he’d been slowing, like she saw, the Kennel Master said he was probably already starting to become ill with the wasting sickness. Better that he went out like he did than waste away.” 

Revas chuffed her agreement, and Alistair reached out to give her a scratch behind her ears. None of them had missed that Revas had lost the best friend she’d had aside from Líadan, and the mabari now spent a lot more time around Malcolm, as if she knew what he’d lost. While she had never entirely liked Malcolm—sometimes viewing him as competition for Líadan’s attention—she tolerated and protected him because her imprinted mistress loved him. Or something like that, Alistair imagined, or Revas wouldn’t be lounging near Malcolm as she was, occasionally setting a paw or her muzzle on his leg.

Malcolm drew up his knees, and then leaned Cáel back on them so he could try to bear weight on his chubby little legs. However, the shift wasn’t an indication of Malcolm being done talking. “But they didn’t just kill my dog. They hurt Líadan. Her shoulder still isn’t entirely better, which she isn’t thrilled about. They put Cáel in danger with that uncalled for smiting business. And I was told what happened in the chantry. More threatening, weapons drawn, that sort of thing.” He looked over at his brother. “Oh, and there’s that whole ‘Knight-Vigilant Renaud breaking his word’ thing, too. There are actions that apologies, no matter how sincere, can take back. Like, say, secrets. And judging from the rumors, the secret’s out way before it should have been. ”

“It is,” said Kennard. “I’ve heard the guards and staff talking about it enough.”

“You know, you’re so quiet most of the time that I forget you’re even there,” Alistair said to the guard.

“Part of my job, Your Majesty. I’m also a good source for information on us common folk, so long as it doesn’t mean tattling on someone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, the situation is pretty screwed,” said Malcolm. “Líadan isn’t too happy.” He glanced over at his brother. “You might want to consider finding a new hiding place. She isn’t too happy with you, either.”

Alistair blanched. He’d forgotten that he’d done things recently that would draw Líadan’s not inconsiderable ire. “When’s she due to return?”

“Anytime. So, it isn’t that I don’t enjoy your company, but that I also enjoy you being alive. You should get to escaping.”

“Too late,” Kennard said over determined footsteps coming from down the hall.

Alistair looked between the door and his brother. “Would it be unkingly of me to run?”

“Very. But I don’t think anyone could really blame you if you did.”

But even then, it was too late, and Líadan was already past Kennard and striding through the doorway. She descended upon him, her irritation nearly as frightening as Anora’s had been. _Nearly_. So he stayed and bore it. Her hands were at her hips, and then they were being waved in the air, only to be swept in the general direction of outside. “You assigned me a guard for whenever I’m out of the compound,” she finally said to him. Well, hurled, really.

“Nice chap,” said Alistair. “His name’s Oscar.”

“I—”

There was a slight possibility he could disarm her with humor—it worked for his brother, after all—and so he kept trying at it. “You might want to introduce yourself. Be nice to him and all. Because he’s nice. Really.”

It didn’t work. She flung herself against the wall and crossed her arms, wincing when they hit her chest, which Alistair didn’t entirely understand but did not want to ask about. She started on him again. “I don’t—”

“No arguments. Please. Not after what happened. It’s too dangerous, and with the rumors and news spreading faster than the itch at the Pearl—”

“That is a _horrible_ metaphor,” muttered Malcolm.

Alistair stuck with it, doing his best to ignore Líadan’s darkening look. “—it will only get worse, not better.” He frowned. “Both the situation and the itch. But the itch can be made better if you see a healer, not that you _have_ the itch, but... all right, so the metaphor was bad.”

His verbal stumbling had Malcolm laughing under his breath, and Alistair thought he even heard Kennard softly chuckling, but it didn’t seem to faze Líadan. She frowned at all three of the men, and then said, “I don’t need a bodyguard.” On second thought, it was more of a declaration.

Alistair stood, propelled by his want to get her to really understand. “Maybe I need you to, all right?” Plain honesty and pleading was really all that was left to him, it seemed. Well. He had no shame, not if it would make her understand why this was so damn important. “Maybe I need you to have a dedicated bodyguard because it’s important to me that you’re as safe as possible. I know you’re a capable fighter. I know you’re a finely trained Dalish hunter who could take out ten determined bandits without breaking a sweat. I _know_ that. But, the thing is, you’re family, and I have to do what I can to protect you. I don’t want to lose anyone else, like I did with my... I don’t.” He couldn’t say it, not because Kennard was right outside the door, but because the words grabbed his throat and held there, refusing to let go. He almost choked up because of it, and that was horrifying, really.

Then, thank the Maker, his pleading honesty mollified her. She met his gaze and nodded, looking just as choked up and emotional as he felt. Right. He coughed and shook himself. Now, if only that sort of thing worked on Anora, he wouldn’t have to hide. “Anyway,” he said, his voice having returned, “it was a close enough thing, even with Kennard there.” He frowned and stuck his head out the doorway. “Were you there?”

“Of course I was.” Kennard met Alistair’s look and seemed to realize that the King intended to talk more in depth with him. He carefully made his way inside the room where the others already were. To his credit, he only looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Why didn’t you intervene between Rhian and Vaughan?” asked Líadan.

“Simple,” said Kennard, immediately relaxing. “He and the other lordlings had it coming. About time someone took care of the problem, I say.”

“So you heard the rumors, too,” said Malcolm.

Kennard nodded. “Probably long before any of you did. The guards gossip worse than a sewing circle, be they city guards or royal guards. Everyone knew. It was just that no one had proof. She deserves a medal for killing them, I say.”

Alistair wished he could arrange that, but his defense of her and stealing her back from the Knight-Vigilant’s custody would have to do. She’d lived through the Joining. Maybe she’d enjoy being a Warden. Someday. He wasn’t going to hold his breath, though. 

The conversation came to a quick end with Nuala appearing just as Cáel began to fuss for food. Alistair managed to at least remain in the compound through the midday meal. All of the Grey Wardens assigned to Denerim drifted into the compound’s main hall for a hearty meal, and there were enough that the hum of constant chatter brought fond memories of Alistair’s time with the Wardens before the Blight.

He had to admit, Malcolm had done a decent job with the garrison in the city. They numbered eight, if Alistair included himself. Far short of the fifty that had lived and trained here before, but it was a good start. If they added in the various staff members and guards, it was enough to make Alistair feel that the compound had come back to life. There was the lighthearted teasing of the new Wardens about their lack of table manners that disappeared in deference to their roaring appetites, calls for sparring bouts, wagers made for the same bouts, plans made for the open evening hours, laughter and arguments and people.

Alistair wondered how it was possible to feel lonely in a room full of fellow Wardens, many of whom he named friend, and they named him the same in return. Being King, he was left out of the majority of the Grey Warden activities. He either trained separately or didn’t train at all, and he certainly wasn’t given any administrative duties. His presence, though always welcome in the compound, was superfluous. It didn’t help that he felt a little separated from his brother, nursing some minor jealousy that Malcolm had such an honest relationship with his partner, and his brother wasn’t even married to her. Meanwhile, Alistair could never quite tell what footing he was on with his own wife, even though he tried. Lately, when he’d thought they were doing well, the world spun and he couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow when it came to relating to Anora. 

Sometimes, it seemed liked even Morrigan had been less prickly.

The very thought sent a shiver through him. All right, Anora was better than Morrigan, at least where he was concerned. Anora had shown honest affection with him, albeit in the barely demonstrative way that was Anora’s, but she had. Alistair just desperately wanted that on a more consistent basis, and for the life of him, couldn’t figure out how he could accomplish it. He did realize that it would be the sort of thing a man asked his father-in-law, but even thinking about Loghain led to a whole other sort of awkward.

The gathered Wardens split up to attend to various duties or lessons, Malcolm complaining about paperwork, Líadan grumbling about Wynne wanting to take another look at her, and Alistair was left with nothing to do. Nuala offered to let him play nursemaid, but he didn’t want to break his nephew, so he turned her down.

Right. Nothing left but to face the absolutely terrifying in the palace. He steeled himself, and then set off. He got as far as within sight of the door that led to the palace before he lost his nerve and stopped. 

Doors were tricky things.

“You’re hiding from Anora, aren’t you?” came Líadan’s voice from behind him.

“Possibly.” He didn’t meet her eyes, electing instead to keep studying the door.

Líadan leapt easily up onto a seat on top of a stack of wooden storage crates. “It isn’t locked, so you don’t have to pick anything to get through. No traps, either.” Something about her seemed different, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.

Alistair chuckled, the idea of traps in dusty rooms set around doors had brought recollections from the Blight. “Remember when Leliana used to let us know there were traps ahead?”

“You mean after you or Oghren or Malcolm had already set them off? I remember. I still don’t know if she did that on purpose. She seemed amused by it, but then again, she always seemed vaguely amused.”

“She did.” He still couldn’t figure out what was different about Líadan. Wait— _that_ was it. She wasn’t wearing armor of any kind, not leathers, not any of the new Warden kit. Not to mention, her emotional guard certainly wasn’t up, either. It usually wasn’t with him, so long as it was a private conversation.

“So, are we talking about your dead lover in the hopes of you avoiding talking about how you’re actively avoiding your very much alive wife?”

Alistair sighed. “She didn’t throw a shoe at you. You’re welcome to go talk to her, if you’re that enthusiastic about it. Just remember to duck.”

Líadan brought her legs up to sit cross-legged on the crate, and then rested her elbows on her legs and her chin on her hands. Watching the entire process of her settling in made Alistair wonder exactly how much longer Líadan would be able to do things like that with such ease. You had to know her really well, but she’d started to show enough for him to notice if he paid close attention. So far, she’d escaped general notice due to expert tailoring from the compound and palace’s staff, but it wouldn’t be long before it was out there. Well, out there beyond what Ser Renaud’s big mouth had already announced. The public had found out ahead of schedule, but apparently not quite as far ahead as they’d assumed. 

What Alistair did not do was bring attention to what he’d noticed. She barely tolerated such observations from Malcolm, the father of her child, or Wynne, the healer seeing her through the pregnancy. From Alistair, who was neither of those, mentioning it even teasingly would bring wicked retaliation and glares and scathing words, and he wanted to keep things friendly. 

“She could just want to talk,” said Líadan.

“Is this a Dalish custom you haven’t told any of us about? You throw shoes and other things at people when you’d like to chat?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Did she really throw a shoe at you?”

“She eyed my boot, which was within her reach at the time.”

Her look turned to one of disbelief. “Really.”

He didn’t like her tone. “Besides, if she wanted to talk, all she needs to do is say so. Or even just start, you know, talking. I’m a Theirin. I know about talking.”

“So maybe that’s what she’s waiting on you for? You to start talking?”

He narrowed his eyes. He had to admit, she could have the right of it. “You might be onto something, there. Still doesn’t feel right to face someone in a mood that scary without my armor.”

She hopped down from the crates, and then offered him a smile. “How about you go do something about it? Tell you what, keep the armor off, but if it makes you feel better, take your shield. That way, you can be in the same room and attempt to hold a conversation, but you can still hide at the same time.”

“You’re evil.” He pointed at her to emphasize as he struggled for better insults and came up empty. The whole showing thing was throwing him off, and her lack of armor did not help him pretend not to notice. Sod it, he’d use it against her because she was evil. “By the way, you’re showing.”

“What?” She looked down at herself in alarm.

He pretended to study her for a moment. Then he said, “Also, you might be glowing.”

She scowled at him, made a rude gesture with her hand, and stormed off. Alistair laughed to himself. Sometimes, he _loved_ being an almost brother-in-law. Having a sister was awesome. Well, when they weren’t being incredibly insightful and astute, and because of those things, he knew he really needed to go find Anora. To enter the belly of the beast, as it were. And he wouldn’t take his shield with him. Because he was a grown man. And a warrior. And a king. And a Grey Warden. And he wasn’t exactly sure where his shield was, anyway, and he didn’t want to go looking for it, because then he’d lose his nerve.

Alistair found Anora in her favorite solar, sitting quietly at a table near a large window, her fingers picking at the edges of a folded piece of parchment. When he entered the room, he purposefully tread with heavy steps, because startling the daughter of Loghain Mac Tir when she was in a sour mood seemed like a very bad idea.

She heard him, but didn’t acknowledge his presence with a typical greeting. Instead, she said in a voice that failed to mask discordant note of upset he’d never heard come from Anora, “Cailan was going to set me aside.”

He halted his approach, nearly toppling forward because he stopped so quickly to stare at her. This was what had her in such a state? Cailan’s _dead_ , Alistair thought. He’s dead and he died in a vainglorious manner suited to a king who couldn’t get out of his father’s shadow no matter how hard he tried. He’d left Anora to run the country while he’d gone hunting and riding and playing at war, a glory-seeking boy in a deadly man’s game, not understanding that heroes died young, and pretender-heroes died even younger. He’d forsaken his wife’s bed and taken mistresses. He’d left Anora a widow without an heir, Queen Dowager to a country facing a Blight. Cailan wasn’t worth pining over, or whatever it was she was doing.

She was upset over him, he knew that much. Upset that he was going to set her aside. Maker, if Cailan _had_ done so, it would have been a favor to her. But he also knew she’d cared for him, in her own way.

But it’d been over two years since Cailan had died at the hands of the ogre. Over two years since the folly and betrayal at Ostagar. Cailan was gone, but not gone enough, even though Alistair had been _there_ , making a go of it for the past year and a half. He’d thought they’d been doing well enough. She’d seemed to enjoy his company, and he hers, for the most part. They butted heads, but that was to be expected of two strong-willed people working together in a partnership. He missed her when they were apart. There was a warmth he felt when he looked at her and caught that slight hint of a smile he’d thought was only for him. After Leliana, he hadn’t thought he’d feel anything remotely like that warmth again. Yet, he had, or did, or was, or something he couldn’t quite describe. He wasn’t sure if it was love, but one could never be too sure of such a mercurial thing. He hadn’t made any declarations, but it had crossed his mind more than once. As for Anora, she wasn’t the type for declarations, not unless they had something to do with ‘law’ or ‘Landsmeet,’ but that was her way.

I’m _here_ , he wanted to say. Me. I’ve been here. I’ve not strayed, nor will I ever. I’m true to my vows, ones that Cailan clearly took too lightly. I won’t betray you. I won’t leave you a widow because I need to leave a legacy that will outshine the sunburst that was my father’s. I don’t know if I love you, but I’m _here_ , by your side, and I’m not going anywhere. He wanted to shout that Cailan was _dead_ and he was none of those things Alistair had just thought.

But Alistair didn’t say those things.

He didn’t say them because it wasn’t who he was. He didn’t say them because he was tired of the tension between them, tension from a cause he hadn’t been able to figure out, and he’d tried. He didn’t say them because of the jealousy he’d felt earlier, jealously of his own brother and the open, honest relationship he had with his partner, an honesty that Alistair couldn’t seem to reach even halfway with his own _wife_.

But he didn’t say those things, either.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Did you know?” she asked.

He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t have been surprised, not if she’d known about Cailan’s mistresses, not if she’d ever thought about how, in five years, she and Cailan hadn’t produced an heir.

But he didn’t say it. “No, I didn’t.” He frowned, wondering how Anora had found out. “How did—”

“Malcolm found some of Cailan’s papers mixed in with the recovered Grey Warden property,” she said, having anticipated his question. “With everything that’s happened, I hadn’t a chance to look until now.” Alistair knew it was a lie and Anora knew it, too; she hadn’t looked because she feared it would upset her, just as exactly had happened.

Neither of them acknowledged the lie for what it was. 

The last part was closer to the truth, at least. Yet, Alistair didn’t know what else to say, so he said nothing.

“He was going to set me aside in favor of Celene.”

Alistair thought he’d misheard. “As in the Empress of Orlais? That Celene?”

“Yes.”

“That’s got to be one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever heard. I mean, I know Cailan wasn’t the brightest, but _Maker_ , that’s worse than I thought.”

“I wonder if my father knew.”

Alistair _really_ didn’t want to talk about Loghain. Maker knew he still didn’t like the man, but he also didn’t want to consider the fact that Loghain had shown admirable restraint in _not_ killing Alistair’s idiot of a half-brother prior to Ostagar. In answer to Anora, he made a noncommittal grunt. Then he decided actual words would be polite. “Your father and I could have agreed on one thing: Cailan was an idiot.”

Anora still hadn’t looked up. “There is certainly mounting evidence pointing to that fact. Perhaps it was best I did not bear him an heir, so that particular trait, wherever it had come from, ended with him.”

“Don’t forget the glory-seeking trait.”

“Alistair.” She’d finally looked up and met his gaze, however briefly, and her exasperation was close enough to amusement for him.

“I’m just saying, is all.” He shrugged and took note that she seemed to have brightened, maybe a little. “From what I’ve heard, Maric didn’t seem a dullard. And knowing Eamon and Teagan, I doubt Rowan was anything less than sharp. So I wonder where his idiocy came from.” He wondered if it were some sort of latent Theirin trait. Alistair’s insecurities came back with the fierce vengeance of a winter wind. He hadn’t felt ones like these since the beginning of the Blight, back when it’d been just him and his younger brother and a sniping, chilly Morrigan left to fight the darkspawn. Malcolm had been no slouch when it came to smarts. He wasn’t as brilliant as Morrigan or Anora, but he’d kept up well enough. One part of Alistair believed he was just as smart. After all, he’d done quite well in his Chantry studies, often landing at the top of the class for his age group at the monastery. But there’d always been that doubt, the doubt he couldn’t remember ever not having. He’d managed to push it aside for a long time, but there were moments when it snuck up on him, and his confidence would pull a vanishing act.

So he suddenly began to fear he shared the same penchant for stupidity as Cailan.

“Maric and Rowan were both very bright,” said Anora as she placed the parchment on the table and smoothed out the folds. Then she looked over at him. “So are you, in the event you find yourself doubting it.”

Alistair gave her a wan smile. So she knew him better than he’d thought, and he wasn’t sure what to think about it. As he watched her, trying to figure out what would be appropriate to say—because all his thoughts from before still begged to be said—she picked up the parchment again and traced its edges. His brow furrowed in confusion. This was not like Anora. She said things. Sometimes the things were half-truths or untruths because she couldn’t bear to betray the things that would make her vulnerable, but she spoke. 

He didn’t possess the fortitude to let it continue. “What is it you aren’t telling me?” he asked. Maybe this entire thing had been her lead-in to informing him that she was setting _him_ aside. Or requesting an annulment or however that would work.

He was slightly surprised to find that he didn’t want her to not want him.

“We seem to be at odds, as of late,” she said.

It had to be a trap. Those words? Great big bear trap, its steel claws opened wide to snap shut on him.

His stare must’ve given away his abject fear, because she said, “I promise not to throw anything at you if you are inclined to agree.”

Even still, before answering, he did a quick inventory of what objects she had at hand that she could lob at him. “Maybe a bit, I’ve noticed.”

“Alistair, you outright hid from me for most of the day.”

He straightened, not even having realized that he’d slouched. “I did not. I visited my brother to see how he was doing.”

She stopped her fiddling long enough to raise an eyebrow at him.

He sighed. “All right. I talked with him _and_ hid.”

Anora carefully set the parchment on the table again, and then folded her hands in her lap. “I apologize for my behavior.”

“And I apologize for whatever I’ve done to cause it,” said Alistair.

The statement startled her from her contemplation of her hands, and she looked at him sharply. “Alistair, you did nothing wrong.”

At once, he was relieved that it hadn’t been him, yet worried that whatever it was couldn’t be fixed. Because, if it’d been his fault, he could’ve stopped whatever behavior that’d been upsetting her. Now, he had no idea what to do to help. “I’m not so sure.”

“I am... we will have an heir, a couple months or so after Malcolm and Líadan have their child.”

Alistair felt his mouth go slack and there wasn’t anything he could do to close it. A rush of excitement went through him, one stronger than when he’d found out about Cáel, or his brother and Líadan’s unborn child, and he wondered if this was how Malcolm had felt when he was to be a father.

Or maybe he was still in the Fade with that sloth demon that’d ensnared them at Kinloch Hold. If it was, he had to hand it to the demon—he’d never seen the whole maybe, _possibly_ loving Anora thing coming.

“Alistair?”

He at least managed to stop gaping. “Really?”

“Yes. I would have said something sooner, but I was encouraged to wait from when I first suspected. The healers, and even Wynne, say it’s better to wait to say anything until it’s certain it’s taken.”

A father. Alistair grinned at her, and for the first time he’d ever witnessed, she returned it fully.

Maybe they’d be all right.


	43. Chapter 43

“Long ago, a soldier from Gwaren was returning home after twenty years at war. He had sold his word for passage to Denerim and had to make his way through the Brecilian Forest with nothing to his name but a single crust of bread. ****

On his way, he met an old, blind woodcutter sitting on a tree stump. ‘Here is someone worse off than myself,’ said the soldier, and he gave the old man his last scrap of bread. The old man blessed him, and gave the soldier his axe in return.

The soldier went on his way, and soon, night fell. He made his bed in a tree branch and held the woodcutter’s axe at his side to ward against beasts and bandits. When the moon was high, he was awakened by the sound of weeping. ‘Show yourself!’ he shouted, for try as he might, the soldier could find no one nearby.

‘Help me,’ spoke the tree in which he’d been sleeping. ‘A mage transformed me into this shape, and I will never be set free. If you had any pity in you, you would cut me down so that my spirit could go to the Maker.’

So the soldier took up his axe and struck the three. The cuts bled like wounds, and soon hot blood covered the axe and burned the soldier’s hands. But he held tightly to the axe and felled the tree. The tree shattered when it hit the ground, and from the splinters rose a demon, who bowed to the soldier and vanished into the Fade.

The soldier was chilled to the bone, and could not sleep. In the morning, he found that the axe still burned like the blood of the sylvan, but despite its heat, he could not get warm again. They say he ended his days in Gwaren, cutting wood for his seven fireplaces, shivering and cursing the spirits.”

— _Aodh_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Alistair**

****“Goldanna, of Denerim,” Steward Warrick announced from the doorway of the audience chamber.

Alistair never really liked conducting the private, almost secret audiences he had to do occasionally. He still didn’t like how clandestine it felt. The ones he was going to have this morning couldn’t even have royal guards present inside the chamber. Instead, he’d asked two of the Grey Wardens to help out with guard duty, Wardens he trusted with his life and with any secrets that needed to be kept. Sigrun and Oghren had answered the call. After a cheerful morning greeting, Sigrun had disappeared into the shadows. Then Oghren leaned against a wall halfway between the double doors and the two thrones that were set on the floor, and not on a raised dais. His axe rested head-down at his side, and Oghren looked the picture of relaxed and nonchalant, which Alistair knew his friend wasn’t. Oghren took guarding his friends very seriously, more seriously than he took his ale, which was saying something.

He’d gone ahead with Eamon’s plan, granting Goldanna a private audience with the King and Queen for her to make her petition for support, being the King’s common half-sister through his supposedly servant mother. For all the disagreements Alistair had with Eamon, he couldn’t deny that Eamon was good at politics, and his idea about using Goldanna as an unknowingly willing cover for Fiona was an excellent one.

Hence the meeting, conducted in all secrecy, except not really, because he wanted the rumor about his commoner half-sister to get out.

 ****Goldanna had brought all five of her children, ranging in various ages from around the toddler stage to what Alistair believed was six. Or eight. Maybe ten, because it was hard to tell. None of them noticed Sigrun, but they were fascinated by Oghren. They entirely ignored the presence of the King and Queen and immediately set to questioning the dwarf about his beard and how he braided it and what it was like to fight the Archdemon.

That one made Alistair a little jealous; he could’ve at least fielded that question.

Then the children asked Oghren if it was true that dwarves were hatched from rocks dipped in lava, and Alistair decided Oghren could take all the children’s questions if he wanted. However, conversing with the children’s mother wasn’t all that better.

“You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time!”

He couldn’t help the flat look he gave her. Honestly. What kind of person blamed an innocent babe for the death of its mother? _Think of the children_ , he reminded himself. They seemed an all right sort, despite their mother. Then he silently reminded himself yet again that it’d been a harsh circumstance and a rough life that had forged her this way. It mostly worked.

She also hadn’t stopped, and that didn’t help. “They told me you was dead! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way. That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back, they ran me off!”

Anora delicately cleared her throat to stop the tirade, and then said, “The Crown is prepared to offer you a stipend of five sovereigns a month in compensation for your loss and your troubles.”

Alistair thanked the Maker once again that Anora could sound so diplomatic in any situation, no matter how frustrated or angered she was by it. And he could tell she was—her fingers had tightened ever so slightly in their grip on the throne’s armrest.

“The bloody King and Queen of Ferelden and you tell me that’s all you got to offer? I should tell everyone, just like I should’ve back then! No reason to keep my mouth shut if I’m given a pittance.”

“It isn’t like the secret isn’t already out, so feel free to tell everyone you come across,” said Alistair. Then he sighed at his own inability to keep his temper. “What amount would satisfy you?”

She crossed her arms, pursing her lips as she did the sums in her head. “Ten sovereigns a month.”

Alistair heard the throne next to his creak as Anora sat up straighter, which he didn’t think was possible given her consistently perfect posture. “Ten?” she asked.

Right, so Anora thought it was too much, but Alistair just wanted this woman out of his sight, and his life, as soon as possible. He could bargain. If he was truly inclined, he could even bully, because her doing what she’d just threatened would help with his cover. But it wasn’t only Goldanna whose care was at stake. _Think of the children._ They all looked fed enough as they gamboled around the audience chamber, but they were on the thin blade’s edge of starvation, where just a week of meager food would put them at risk of death.

“Let me promise you this, Goldanna,” he said, using the most kingly tone he could muster. “I’ll do whatever I can to ensure you and your children are taken care of.”

“That sounds all well and fine, but you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t exactly hold my breath, Your Majesty. I’ll believe it when I see the coin and the children are fed, and no sooner.”

“You have my promise.”

“Well, I certainly know how strong a king’s promise is, don’t I?” She uncrossed her arms, brushed off her skirts, and rounded up her children. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Majesties, but I’ve got washing to get to.”

Alistair sat back and motioned toward the exit. “By all means, you have my leave.” _Don’t let the door hit you in the arse on the way out_ , _sister._

The meeting had gone a long way to proving that if he’d met this woman during the Blight, he might’ve cried afterward at the thought of her being his sister. He waited for a few moments after the doors closed before he said so out loud.

Anora had fixed a frown on the doors. “Even though she’s your sister, you granted her too much.”

“For the children,” he said. At some point, he realized, he would have to tell Anora that Goldanna wasn’t really his sister, nor had his mother been a mere chambermaid. But that would require him to think about Fiona for more than a brief instant, and that caused too many troublesome emotions to shove their way upwards from where he’d smothered them. So, he put it off.

Her skeptical look told him she didn’t quite believe his reason for such generosity, but she didn’t argue further. “Arl Eamon is next.”

He slumped in the throne. “You had to remind me.”

“Need I remind you of posture? We’re both in agreement about being clear that he will not be given as much latitude as he has in the past. Sitting as you are would not reinforce that new goal.”

He resumed sitting up straight as he looked sideways at her. “If we’re supposed to be intimidating him, why are we having the meeting here and not the actual throne room?” 

“Because he’s also requested a second meeting to be conducted in as much privacy and safety as possible for the petitioner, lest their life be put in danger.”

“Oh, sounds like fun,” said Oghren.

Anora shot him a glare for his commentary, but it only made Oghren chuckle. The only reason Anora had yet to admit that she couldn’t intimidate Oghren, Alistair figured, was because his wife had never met Branka. After her, he couldn’t see anyone being intimidating, man, woman, kossith, whoever. 

She sighed and returned her gaze to Alistair. “If it makes you feel any better, we’ve lunch with your brother and Líadan afterward.”

That did help. He grinned, eager to tell his brother that his nephew would be off the hook for being the direct heir to the throne. He also wanted to brag that _he_ hadn’t required any magical interventions to make _his_ child. It’d been killing him keeping it to himself as he had for the past weeks, but Anora had asked him quite nicely for more time before they told anyone beyond themselves or Wynne. She’d experienced loss before, she’d said, and did not want to experience the awkward sympathy that followed. Knowing that disagreeing would make him a total ass, he’d complied with her wishes. He wouldn’t want her to go through that again, either.

“There’s also the matter of Eamon putting a stop to a planned purge of the Elven Quarter a few weeks ago. We’ve been neglectful in not thanking him for his actions.” Anora tilted her head. “Though we did consider it, before Isolde had the baby and we were forced to postpone our thanks.”

Alistair, who’d started to slouch again, started. “We sent them something, didn’t we? I mean, that’s what you do for people with a new baby? Give them cute things?”

“Aye,” said Oghren. “I sent him a few nips of dwarven ale a couple days after. He’ll need it.”

“I sent a stuffed nug,” came Sigrun’s voice from somewhere behind the thrones.

Alistair gave Anora a plaintive look. “Tell me we’ve better social graces than Oghren. Tell me we sent them a present.”

“An appropriate gift was sent over the morning we heard the news that Rowan had been born. It was not dwarven ale.” She clasped her hands together. “Now, we should allow him inside. I’m curious about who his guest is.” 

With a grunt, Oghren stood up straight, walked over, and rapped on the door, the signal for Warrick to send in the next subject. Oghren had barely settled into his place against the wall close to the door, when Warrick opened the door and rushed to announce Eamon as Eamon stalked right past him. “His Grace, Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe.” Warrick directed a withering glare at the back of the arl’s head before he exited, closing the door behind him.

“Queen Anora,” Eamon said, and then gave the King a curt nod, which Alistair took to be a mighty light application of courtesy. “Alistair.”

Instead of jumping to his feet and shouting, “Oh, come _on_!” and requesting that Eamon at least use the ‘King’ bit if he was going to use ‘Queen’ with Anora right in front of him, Alistair nodded back, and then congratulated the arl on the birth of his daughter.

That seemed to throw him off kilter, as if he hadn’t expected proper courtesy from Alistair. “Thank you,” he finally managed to say.

“We also wanted to thank you for your efforts in stopping the purge of the Elven Quarter,” said Anora. “Without your firm voice of guidance, the miscreants would have massacred the elves. Denerim doesn’t need more bloodshed after all it’s been through. So, again, we thank you for your intervention in that matter.”

Eamon blinked and bowed again, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to do in response. “You are welcome, Your Majesties.”

Alistair wanted to shout in triumph, but he didn’t. He remained seated on his throne and acted dignified because that was what proper kings did. However, he did hope that all the politeness had thrown off Eamon enough that he’d just get right to introducing his mystery guest instead of barraging them with questions he hadn’t asked in ages.

The arl briefly glanced back at the doors, working himself up to whatever bluster he’d been in when he’d stormed into the room. Then he said, “Before my guest comes in for her audience, I would like to ask a question, if it pleases Your Majesties.”

 _No, it wouldn’t please Our Majesties,_ Alistair thought. So much for hope.

“Go ahead,” said Anora, when Alistair neglected to answer.

“Warden Líadan,” said Eamon.

Alistair schooled his facial expression into one he hoped appeared somewhat neutral. “Not hearing a question in there.” All right, so his tone was more than antagonistic, but they both knew where this was headed—a lot of shouting.

Eamon huffed. “She’s with child, is she not? Malcolm’s child?”

“I’m not answering that question,” said Alistair. When Eamon started to raise a hand, Alistair cut him off. “Don’t press your luck.”

Eamon, to no one’s surprise, paid no heed to Alistair’s warning. “It’s quite _obvious_. Aside from the rumor regarding what the Knight-Vigilant outright said in the chantry, one _look_ at that w—”

Alistair saw the insult forming on Eamon’s lips before the arl said it, but Anora did as well, and she lifted her hand to interrupt. Yet, it was Oghren who got to it before either of them. “Say anything bad about the elf and you answer to me,” he said in a rumbling tone from where he stood near the door.

In shock, Eamon spun to look at Oghren.

Oghren shrugged. “What? I’ve been around to see all this since the Blight, and old Oghren pays more attention than you bloody nobles seem to think.” He pointed a stubby finger at Eamon. “You have a nug up your arse about the blighter and the elf. You’ve made that more sodding clear than a noble-hunter bucking Bhelen Aeducan’s bronto, and you haven’t let go any more than a deepstalker does a duster’s ankles. Well, now Oghren’s telling you to sodding let it go, or you’ll be introduced to his trusty axe.”

Eamon gaped. “Are you threatening me?”

Part of Alistair wondered if Eamon really didn’t understand what it was Oghren had just said. Because if Alistair hadn’t been to Orzammar himself and then spent months in Oghren’s company, understanding the dwarf’s metaphors would be a bit of a reach.

Oghren hefted his axe, tilting it so the light from the sconces moved along the polished, finely engraved blades. The way he looked at it, it seemed he was appreciating a piece of fine art, if Oghren were inclined to such things. Alistair had to admit, the axe really was a work of art, no argument. Master dwarven smiths carried their reputations for a reason. The axe Oghren held was one of them.

“No,” Oghren said after letting Eamon get a good, long look at the weapon. “But let me tell you about this axe. It was forged by a master smith. The same master smith who became a Paragon due to her skill, and then took her entire House, save one, into the Deep Roads to seek the old glory of Orzammar. She found it, but there are some things that aren’t worth the sweat and ale or blood and hopes they take to bring them back. Costs too much, even when there’s plenty of gold. Any rate, she disagreed. Violently, because that’s who she was. She forged this axe. And this is the axe that killed her.” Oghren moved his eyes up to steadily look at Eamon. “I loved that woman more than a duster loves gaining a caste. So don’t you go thinking that old Oghren would have a lick of trouble using this axe on you.”

“Well.” Eamon broke his gaze from the dwarf and didn’t quite cover his shudder before he addressed the King and Queen. “If I may take my leave?”

“Please do,” said Alistair, probably a bit too eagerly. “Send in your guest after.”

Eamon bowed and left without another word.

Then Alistair looked over at Oghren. “ _Leliana_ was the one who killed Branka.”

Axe once again resting at his side, Oghren chuckled. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. Better story the way I told it. Bet he’ll leave the elf alone now.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” said Anora, “much as I agree with your sentiment, Oghren. However, Eamon was right on at least one account—Líadan’s condition has become quite obvious to anyone who happens to see her.” She sighed and looked over at Oghren. “Much as I would like for you to be able to threaten all who might comment, I do not think even you are up to the task.” Her eyes widened and she rushed her next statement. “And do not think that a challenge. It was an observation, nothing more.”

“I can sodding try.” Oghren crossed his arms, the rest of what he had to say devolving into unintelligible muttering. 

Warrick loudly cleared his throat from the doorway, where a young woman stood next to him. “Arl Eamon’s guest.” He ushered the woman into the chamber, bowed, and then exited once more. 

“May I approach, Your Majesties?” the young woman asked. Her eyes were the most vivid and startling shade of blue Alistair had ever seen.

“You are a Vael,” said Anora. “I can tell from your eyes. Your family line has always had the most remarkable shade of blue. However, the last I heard, your entire family had been killed, yourself included.”

“I must say,” said Alistair, “you look remarkably well-kept for a dead person. None of the wailing or rattles in the chest when you breathe, attacking with rusty swords and such. You’re—” He felt Anora’s glare burning into the side of his neck and stopped. The run-in with Eamon had apparently thrown him off more than he’d thought if he’d launched into one of his ill-timed jokes during a court session, even a secret one.

He cleared his throat, and did _not_ look at Anora. “My apologies. It’s been a long day, though it’s not yet noon. We’d heard you died along with your family, and yet here you are.”

The woman seemed at once horrified at Alistair’s statement, and yet if he looked very closely, he believed he might have seen a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. If it had been there, it quickly disappeared. “Your information is out of date, Your Majesties. The Divine corrected the wrongful recording of my death in Chantry records.” Her tone was firm, but still polite. She took Alistair’s statement as permission to approach, and she walked up to stand in front of them, dropping into a quick, well practiced curtsey before continuing. “My name is Meghan Vael, former princess of Starkhaven. I’ve come before you to petition for asylum. Were I to return to the Free Marches, or perhaps any other part of Thedas, my family’s persecutors would seek me out and return me to the Maker’s side as they did with the rest of my family, whether I went openly or in secret. Here, I am not as well known. I need not even conduct myself entirely in secret, so long as I keep a low profile.”

Alistair studied the woman carefully. She seemed sincere enough, and Anora nodded when Meghan told her what her name was, so Anora thought the same as he did. But something was off—Eamon’s involvement. Something about it bothered him; Eamon had to be working an angle, and Alistair had no idea what it was. It wasn’t like Eamon to just pull indigent refugees off the streets. “How did you come to be a guest of Arl Eamon?”

She startled slightly. Apparently, she’d been expecting a different question. “I met his wife, Arlessa Isolde, when I was in the Denerim chantry, Your Majesty. I had just been denied asylum by Grand Cleric Philippa, and was contemplating lighting a prayer candle—” She stopped and flushed, briefly looking down at her feet. “In all honesty, I was contemplating stealing the donation box so that I would be arrested and put in jail. There, I had thought, I would at least have food and shelter, however meager.”

“I appreciate your honesty, though it’s probably for the best that you avoided Fort Drakon,” Alistair said with a laugh. “Now, how did you go from contemplating imprisonment to agreeing to stay at the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate? Isolde saw you and offered her assistance?” 

“For whatever reason, yes. It was Arl Eamon who encouraged me to petition you so that my safety here in Ferelden could be guaranteed, if you are so inclined to grant it.”

“Were you there when your family was killed?” asked Alistair.

Shadows that could never be faked passed over Meghan’s eyes. “I was out of the castle, without the knowledge of my family. I returned—snuck back in, really—at the tail end of the... assault. I came face to face with only one attacker, and he left me with this.” She lifted her arm, pushing the sleeve of her dress up to her elbow to reveal a nasty scar. “It was healed initially, but even then, the healer informed me that my hand may never be right again.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” said Alistair. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and their confrontation with Eamon had left him struggling to regain the kingly mask he’d learned to wear.

Anora nodded. “I apologize if we have dredged up difficult memories. I do hope that one day you will tell us the tale of how you made it here to our country.”

Meghan bowed her head. “If it pleases you.”

If Eamon hadn’t been involved in the matter in some way, Alistair knew he’d be inclined to grant the asylum without hesitation. Even still, he wanted to; it would be the right thing to do. This woman had lost her entire family, and he’d have to be blind not to see the similarity to what she’d suffered and what his brother had gone through at Highever. Well, that sold it. “For as long as you are in Ferelden, Lady Vael, you will be protected, by order of the Crown.” Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Anora nod. Good, they were in full agreement.

Meghan smiled, and Alistair could practically see the waves of relief washing over her body. “Thank you, Your Majesties.”

“Do you require a place to stay?” asked Anora. “We could help in arranging one, if so.”

“Arl Eamon has made it clear that I am welcome to remain at his Denerim estate for as long as necessary,” said Meghan. “But the offer is appreciated.”

More small talk followed, along with plans to meet again, under more friendly and less official and secretive circumstances, and then Meghan departed after another round of gratitude. Oghren and Sigrun, duties over, absconded to the Warden compound for the midday meal, while Alistair and Anora headed to the small dining hall they used more often in the palace. Adalla had been waiting outside the audience chamber, and bounded at their heels as they walked. After bestowing attentions upon her mabari, Anora asked, “How is your brother doing?”

“All right, I guess.” Alistair shrugged. Malcolm had reacted so differently to losing Gunnar than he had the other members of his family that he couldn’t rightly tell if his brother was okay. It stood to reason that Malcolm had simply matured, and his grief wouldn’t be as obvious as a young man’s barely out of his teens, and certainly not overly intrude on his daily life. What he had noticed were the moments when Malcolm glanced down at his side, clearly expecting Gunnar to be there, and the bereft look that crept into his eyes at the empty space the mabari had left. Yet, his brother had focused a lot on Cáel and Líadan, and then his work running the compound and leading the Wardens in Denerim. He’d proven quite capable, to the pleasant surprise of many. Alistair, though he did believe in his brother, had even been slightly surprised. Malcolm had been away so much in the past year that Alistair hadn’t quite noticed until recently how much his brother had grown up. It was, in his opinion, rather startling to realize. 

Even Malcolm’s reaction to the scene in the chantry, and Líadan being Líadan and inadvertently putting herself —and their unborn child—in danger hadn’t caused the reaction Alistair had expected. Yes, Malcolm had been angry with the Orlesians, particularly the Knight-Vigilant, the templars who’d hit Líadan with a smite, and of course the ones responsible for his mabari’s death. He’d also tried his damnedest to get into the chantry, held back first by Oghren and Thierry, and then by Wynne and her ability to petrify. But once he’d come out of it, he’d calmed, and had been able to mostly speak and act rationally. 

Alistair suspected it was only because the Knight-Vigilant had already been shown up and kicked out, and that Líadan and their unborn child and Cáel had been either unharmed or not sustained any major injury. Had any of them been truly hurt, or had Gunnar been his only family involved, Alistair suspected everything would’ve gone in a very different, dark direction. The many apologies given by a rather large number of Orlesian templars before they’d left must have influenced Malcolm’s settling temper, as well. While Renaud had not said a word, Alistair reckoned at least half his subordinates had made what amends they could, and promised unofficial discipline at the hands of displeased brother and sister templars, if the official discipline meted out was not viewed as harsh enough. 

A few brave souls had even approached Líadan. Those attempts had ended with Líadan throwing them out of the Warden compound, followed by giving an earful to the guards who’d deigned to let the templars inside. That she hadn’t actually bodily thrown out the templars was a step in of itself.

Alistair hoped Malcolm continued on his new path of maturity, mostly because things were just starting to get incredibly difficult to deal with, if Eamon’s questioning was any indication. He also hoped that it _was_ maturity, and not the repression that Wynne suspected, and had mentioned to Alistair more than once. Thus far, she had yet to mention it to anyone else, and Alistair had asked her to keep it that way. 

“I think it best if we continue to keep an eye on him, for his own sake. I couldn’t imagine losing Adalla.” Anora gave her mabari a good pat on the back for reassurance. “Though I suspect having Cáel and Líadan around, as well as much work to do for the Wardens, has kept his focus on the good things.”

“I thought the same.” Then they entered the dining hall, where Malcolm and Líadan were already waiting, except they hadn’t been waiting, because they’d already started to eat. Which he really couldn’t fault them for when they stood, because _Maker’s breath_ , he swore Líadan hadn’t been showing that much when he saw her yesterday. Maybe there’d been a slight swelling that could’ve been attributed to the softer life of being in garrison rather than the constant fighting of a Blight—though he knew they still trained incredibly hard even while in garrison—but still, it stood to reason someone could have mistaken it for that. But certainly not anymore. The profile was unmistakeable. And he was very, very glad he’d assigned her a guard.

She must have noticed just where his attention had immediately gone, because she blushed and sat right back down. Alistair recalled Anora’s advice, and hoped that Líadan’s reaction was just one for those she was close to, and not a vulnerability she’d show in public, especially around the nobility. 

Anora went straight to it. “You look wonderful, truly,” she said to Líadan. “However, you’ll have to wear that bristly anger you call upon so often when you aren’t among friends. Otherwise, the wolves will get to you, and they will not hesitate to tear you apart.”

“I know,” said Líadan. “I swear to Mythal that I just woke up like this. Wynne told me it was normal, especially for someone built as I am.”

Malcolm didn’t say a word, which Alistair took as a lesson for himself, later on. His brother also looked at her, when she wasn’t looking at him, like she was the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on. Even Alistair had to admit that as much as he’d teased her for it, the glow was rather fetching. He wondered if Anora would be the same, when she was as far long. He couldn’t wait to see. 

“So!” Alistair said as he dropped into a chair across from Malcolm and Líadan. “I have news.”

Anora sighed. “ _We_ have news.”

He grinned. “Cáel will be off the so-called hook of inheriting the throne a couple months after your new one is born.”

Malcolm returned the grin, but a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “This is like the puppy. You’re copying us!”

Líadan, who’d been sharing a smile with Anora, rolled her eyes at Malcolm. “We _gave_ her the puppy. She didn’t seek out a puppy of her own. You should just stop right there and be happy for her and your brother.”

“And,” said Alistair, because even a king wasn’t beyond gloating to his own brother, “at least I didn’t need any magical assistance, like a parchment-thin Veil, like you did. I think that makes my stones better than yours, to use an Oghren-term.”

Malcolm stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open in shock. “You know, I think I preferred you competing over the height thing. This is very awkward.”

“What, that you aren’t man enough?”

“Not man—you take that back!” Malcolm half-rose from his chair, stopped only by Anora clearing her throat.

“Gentlemen.”

“Boys, I’d say,” said Líadan. 

Any further scolding was interrupted by a knock on the door. Alistair’s call for them to enter was followed by Steward Warrick coming through with Thierry at his side. Warrick looked unbothered, because he rarely seemed thrown by anything, but Thierry looked decidedly anxious.

“What is it?” asked Anora.

“I have official correspondence from the office of the Divine,” said Warrick, who then inclined his head toward Thierry. “And Warden Thierry says he has a message he believes must be shared with you.”

Alistair extended a hand to Warrick. “Let’s have the message. Thierry, you’re welcome to join us. Have something to eat while I read.”

Warrick departed after Anora dismissed him, and Thierry seemed about to object before he caught sight of the food, and chose instead to find a chair and begin to eat. Alistair cracked the wax seal imprinted with the Chantry’s sunburst, and was promptly shocked at what he found inside. 

He must have inhaled loudly in his surprise, because he felt Anora’s hand on his forearm. “What is it?” she asked.

Alistair set the letter on the table. “The Divine has died.”

“That’s... unfortunate?” said Malcolm, looking like he didn’t believe his words at all. “No, that’s not the right word. I mean, I’m really trying to form the socially and religiously appropriate reaction, but...”

“You’re failing miserably,” said Alistair.

He sat back in his chair. “I know. Let’s just pretend I made an appropriately mournful face, mumbled an appropriate platitude, and move on.”

“Maybe I should send you to the funeral as Ferelden’s representative.”

“That’s the Grand Cleric’s responsibility. Besides, do you want to create a diplomatic incident?”

Like he hadn’t nearly created one when he kicked the Knight-Vigilant out of the country. “Honestly? Sometimes.”

Anora let out a sigh of frustration. “Was she assassinated?”

“What? That happens?” asked Malcolm. “People really do assassinate Divines?”

“The Chantry is based in Orlais. And while she was on the long side of old, she didn’t exactly look ripe for death, as it were.” Alistair did his best to ignore Anora’s frown as he checked the letter again. “Huh. Says here she died of natural causes, whatever those are.” He put the letter back on the table, and Anora immediately snatched it up. Alistair leaned back in his chair. “I’m not even really sure how death can be considered natural. Natural is that someone’s alive, not so much dead.”

“She did have dementia, I’m fairly certain,” said Thierry. “Some say she showed signs of her dementia even when she first ascended as the Divine.”

“And yet she was appointed? Whatever for?” asked Alistair.

Thierry smiled. “The Chantry _is_ based in Orlais. There are always machinations centered around the Seat of the Divine. The templars were never truly privy to the goings-on. Sometimes, I doubt even the Seekers were.” He looked over at Anora. “Do you happen to know who succeeded Regula?”

The Queen checked the letter. “Beatrix III is the name she has chosen for her reign.” She squinted at the text and rubbed at it with her finger. “I’m unsure about her name prior to her ascension. It’s smudged. It might possibly be Beatrice, but I cannot be entirely certain.”

Thierry’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “She is an... interesting choice.”

“Why’s that?” asked Malcolm.

“She is old. Very old. It is likely she could drop dead at any moment, or continue to inexplicably live forever. More machinations, I presume.” Then he pushed aside the remains of his meal and retrieved a folded piece of parchment from the pouch at his belt. “Her Perfection’s death is why I came here. I was sent a message by one of the templars in Val Royeaux who is still loyal to me—he is one of many who are not so zealous as the Knight-Vigilant. He wanted to warn me, possibly to warn you, Your Majesties, that the Chantry does not consider the former Divine’s death to be of natural causes. It is a ruse. Internally, they have deemed it suspicious, and their suspicions fall on—”

“Ferelden,” said Anora. “Our recent experience with the Knight-Vigilant and the Divine would seem like very good motives to see her gone.” She pinched the bridge of her nose before addressing Thierry. “What do you think will happen? Will the new Knight-Vigilant come here to conduct an investigation?”

“Given what happened, that is unlikely. His or her presence would only make matters worse, and certainly not lead to an investigation. More than likely, it would lead to their death, whether officially at the hands of the Crown, or unofficially through anyone who took offense to the actions of the former Knight-Vigilant and his templars. No. If you would be so lucky, it would be the new Knight-Vigilant. But these matters, they are not things that are undertaken by mere templars.”

“Seekers,” said Alistair, all warmth draining from his limbs. “You think they’ll send Seekers of Truth.”

“They are the investigative arm, Your Majesty. Maker help us if they take up the challenge. They will not stop until they are satisfied with the explanation. If your truth does not match theirs, there is no telling what they might do.” Thierry’s hand twitched toward his mouth, the habit Alistair hadn’t seen the templar fall into in quite some time returning with a vengeance. Then Thierry said, “There is always the possibility that my ally could be incorrect. Rumors are rumors, after all. The real truth of it, I cannot say.”

Alistair nodded in understanding. That was the nature of having a source on the inside. Their information could be faulty, based on merely rumor or conjecture, or they could be feeding you false information, because they are no longer the ally you believed them to be. “I’ll have Baltasar and his people put on alert. They can at least passively monitor the Denerim port without alarming the populace. But until we’ve more solid information, we can’t put the city and royal guards on alert. We’d have a panic, I think. Or a riot. Or both.” He studied Thierry again. “Unless you think your source is solid enough to warrant a full alert?”

Thierry slowly shook his head. “I wish it were that certain, Your Majesty, but I cannot know how reliable this person is any longer. Not when I have been away so long.”

“Right, then.” Alistair nodded. “Just Baltasar and his people, then. The Wardens, and others who should be in the know, but for now, that will be it. I’m not sure if I tell Somerled that he won’t tell his guards, and that his guards won’t tell others. Granted, Somerled would tell them in order to have them be more prepared, but the more people who know, the bigger the chance it’ll get out and cause a panic or get everyone all worked up again. We were lucky enough to avoid riots last time. I’d like to keep avoiding said riots if we can. They’d be just as destructive as a visit from the Seekers.”

The meeting ended on a much more somber note than it had begun. That night, Alistair found he couldn’t sleep, and took a walk in the empty market. A couple stealthy, and blessedly quiet guards trailed some distance behind him. They were far enough away that Alistair was able to forget they were there, and could concentrate on studying the place where the diplomatic relations between Ferelden, Orlais, and the Chantry had started to break down. Where the mabari who’d protected him in battles more times than he could count had died to save the life of the closest person Alistair had to a sister. Where a city elf had brought a form of justice to her people, had brought an end to a reign of terror, and yet had found herself at the flawed mercy of the Orlesian Chantry. 

The market looked the same. Worn, dull cobblestones sat under empty wooden booths and platforms that merchants would fill with their wares once again in the morning. It didn’t look like a place that would hold such significance, be such a symbol of when things had really changed. Alistair heard the sound of drunks stumbling out of the door of the Gnawed Noble. He smiled to himself. Some things would never change.

Then he thought he saw—there was a flash of red hair, in the shadows, but it was the movement that drew his eye, its fluidity and style achingly familiar.

No. Leliana was dead. He’d driven the dagger himself. He’d held her as she died. He’d watched her body burn, sent to the Maker’s side. It had to be the recent resurgence of memories making him see with his eyes what his mind kept seeing. Nothing more.

He mentioned it to no one.


	44. Chapter 44

“Let Him take notice and shine upon thee, ****

for thou has done His work on this day.

And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet,

and all animals of earth and air held their breath.

And all was silent in prayer and thanks.”

— _Chant of Light, Verse Unknown_

**Leliana**

****As she strode purposefully down the corridor, Leliana believed she could see the fracture lines forming through her beloved Chantry, like someone had tread too heavy a step on the tenuous early winter ice of Lake Calenhad. Hairline cracks snaked outward, racing toward the open water. Force applied in just the wrong—or right—way, and the ice would break apart. She could see the fractures forming between Chantry factions, and the tension building up between each side. There was only so much she and the other Seekers could do to remove the more extreme believers from each faction when new ones seemed to crop up every day. It didn’t help when the problems presented at the highest levels of the Chantry’s hierarchy. Such a problem now resided here, in the sanitarium wing reserved for retired templars living at the White Spire in Val Royeaux.

The recent incidents with the former Knight-Vigilant Renaud had served as evidence of one of her Chantry’s most fatal flaws—its use and reliance on lyrium to tie their templars to them indefinitely. It meant the eldest, the most seasoned and experienced officers, those placed in the higher offices of power, were also the same people beginning to experience the devastating effects of lyrium delusion.

Renaud had been once such victim. He had hidden his debilitating condition well, and no one had noticed until his rampant paranoia and impulsivity laced with bouts of psychosis had taken over his waking hours. The lyrium’s coup had unfortunately happened in Ferelden, and in rather spectacular fashion. Combined with Divine Regula’s dementia, the peacekeeping trip to Ferelden had gone... poorly.

Matters had not improved from there.

As Leliana discovered, along with the other Seekers and Revered Mother Dorothea, Ser Renaud had been ill for a long time before his sustained lapse of control. They had still not yet tracked down all of his like-minded followers. Renaud’s influence had wormed its way deep into the Chantry’s ranks, and Leliana despaired at finding them all. However, they had to. His followers were unfortunately not like Renaud’s former, even-handed, and fair self, but were like the violent and paranoid man he’d become.

At least Renaud had the excuse of lyrium poisoning to explain the extremism of his views and actions. The others did not, and had to be dealt with.

Renaud required a different kind of attention. He had made serious claims and requested an audience with his replacement or the new Divine. Leliana, chosen from amongst the Seekers by Dorothea, had been sent instead. One of the templar guards brought her into an austere meeting room used often for the retired templars. The mostly bare room served to keep both guest and templar safe from harm.

He did not hide his displeasure. “You are not a Knight-Vigilant. You are not even a templar, Seeker.” He spit the title from his lips in fear-driven disdain.

Leliana folded her hands in her lap as she sat in the wooden straight-backed chair across from the newly retired templar. “You requested an audience. I am your audience, and I am listening.”

Renaud’s wary gaze flicked over Leliana’s shoulder to the open door and the guards beyond.

“It is for my safety,” said Leliana. “You are not stable.”

“Lyrium,” he said, his voice rough, as if he’d been shouting. “I am told it has gotten to me. I did not see it.”

“Neither did we, until recently.”

His eyes narrowed when he caught the accusation. “My actions were not without merit. _Are_ not without merit, Seeker, no matter what you may believe.”

“Then tell me what gives them merit.”

“Her Perfection’s death, for one. Even as her body is lying in state, awaiting her pyre to send her to our Maker’s side, no one is the wiser that her death was not natural. She was poisoned.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “How is it you know? Did you poison her yourself?”

“Don’t be preposterous. My duty is to protect Her Perfection, to protect the Chantry, to protect the faithful from the mages and the dangers they present. One of the Chantry’s member nations has been sullied by the influence of dark magic, dark enough to kill our Divine, and you Seekers know nothing of it. You censure me for having acted when no one else would, and all the while, maleficarum have the ears of Ferelden’s ruling family. I would not be surprised if they control the minds of the witless rulers of that muddy country of dog-lords. Her Perfection sought to treat with those barbarians, and look what it got her. Death.” 

Renaud stood up and stalked in small circles on his side of the room, his volume rising with every word he spoke. “I did what I could, but I was stopped, fettered, _restricted_ in what I was allowed to do. Her Perfection paid the price. What others will you permit to pay the same price before you take action?” Beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and his pacing did nothing to hide the tremors coursing through his limbs.

Though the former Knight-Vigilant had made outrageous accusations of friends of Leliana’s, she did not react outwardly. She remained calm, using the intonation of her voice to keep Renaud from becoming more agitated. This was the only way she would be able to get any useable information out of him. If he were allowed to spiral too far out of control, his sentences would become garbled and no one would be able to glean any meaning from them. “Can you identify the maleficarum you found influencing Ferelden’s rulers?”

“That Warden, for one.” Renaud halted and spun to face Leliana again. “The one who controls the lovestruck prince. Then there’s the court healer who is good, yet too good. Too quiet. Always the quiet ones who’ll drop a nightmare on you when your back is turned. And they worked so hard to protect that knife-eared murderer of an apostate from their alienage from being made Tranquil. If you ask me, Tranquil would’ve been too good for her. She should have been executed right away. Here in Orlais, she would have, if she’d killed a Chevalier or three like she did with those lords in Ferelden.” He shook his head. “And we must never forget that first maleficar who manipulated that idiot of a prince, like the boy never thinks with the head on his shoulders, only the other. She might be gone—dead, if I hear correctly—but who knows what the extent of her dark influence is on the prince or that bastard child she left with him. Those are your real concerns, Seeker. I should be the least of them.” 

Renaud’s long fingers, scarred from years plying sword and shield, brushed over the top of the wooden chair before he leaned on it. “I should be the least of your concerns, and yet, here you are. Here, instead of in Ferelden, ridding its ruling class of blood mages.”

“You make quite the accusation,” said Leliana. 

“I state the truth. If you cannot hear the truth when it is spoken, you are no true Seeker at all.”

She began to stand, ready to move on and discuss her new findings with Dorothea. They had much work to do, thanks to Renaud. “I will look into it.”

“Look at it as a bard would, not a Seeker.”

The words were pitched so quietly that the change, not to mention the content, almost jostled Leliana from her fluid movements. She recovered quickly enough on the outside, though inside, she remained shaken. It had to be a lucky guess. There was no way he could know of her training, unless he assumed Seekers were commonly trained as bards. Not so common, no, but she was hardly the only bard amongst them. “As I said, I will look into it.” Leliana strode towards the doorway, pausing momentarily to glance back at Renaud. “Maker watch over you, Ser Renaud.”

“You will need it more than I,” he replied, the flush along his cheekbones bright against his otherwise sallow complexion, the sheen of sweat reflecting the light from the sconces. “You will need it far more than I will, trapped here as I am.” Without warning, he picked up the chair and flung it against the wall next to the door, his lyrium-induced psychosis yet again taking over. “If you cannot do your duty as you kept me from mine, my people will take care of it! They will finish for me! They will keep our Chantry, our Andrastians, safe from the scourge that is magic!” 

Templar guards rushed in through the doorway to subdue the raging older templar before he could hurt himself. Often, it was the elder, psychotic templars who suffered the most harm in their lyrium-clouded retirement.

“You are my brothers! How could you betray me? How can you not understand? We are all at risk!”

More than a few of the young guards winced at the question, their eyes fearful not of the man, but of having witnessed what fate awaited them as their careers and lives waned. They would have given everything to the Chantry, and lyrium would steal the life they had left to them.

A flawed system.

As Leliana had promised, she looked into the matter of the cause of the Divine’s death. In the days that Regula lay in state as the Grand Clerics of Thedas gathered for the Great Consensus, Leliana reached out to her contacts who were well-versed in various fatal poisons. Her own evaluation had turned up no poison she was aware of, but she wasn’t so egotistic to assume that she knew them all; no one could. However, between herself and her contacts throughout Thedas’ various shadow organizations, their combined knowledge would cover the gamut of potential agents that could have been used for Renaud’s claimed poisoning. 

One by one, her contacts came and went in the night, combing over the Divine’s body for signs of poison. One by one, they left after having discovered nothing. The Antivan Crow shrugged a shoulder, her fellow bard touched a finger to lips as she gave a short shake of her head, the Nevarran had a loud sigh and a declaration of nothing, and the Anders assassin had only a long hard stare before a stark pronouncement. 

“The Divine died of nothing but natural causes,” he said in a confident tenor. “Whoever made the claim otherwise is wasting your time. Listen to him not, Seeker. I will see myself out, yet I will return in the daylight to pay my respects to Her Perfection, may she rest at our Maker’s side.” He waited for her nod before fading into the night.

It left Leliana at a loss. The only people she had not consulted were the Shadows of the Empress—but they were not an organization one called upon, for they existed in the tenuous place between truth and myth. They were true enough to warrant caution, and were of enough myth to warrant the same. Frustrated, and eager to act on what she knew would be a mission to Ferelden, Leliana delivered her report to Revered Mother Dorothea. 

“We have found nothing unnatural regarding the Divine’s passing,” she finished saying as she spoke quietly with Dorothea in one of the many offices in the Grand Cathedral’s complex. “Ser Renaud is either delusional or mistaken.”

“Delusional,” said Dorothea, “and grasping at straws. The Divine he was charged to guard passed away in her sleep, a death no man or woman can guard against.” A faint, wry smirk played briefly on her lips. “I believe he also may have a slight vendetta when it comes to Ferelden’s ruling family. Add in their supposed collusion with mages—blood mages, if Renaud is to be believed—and one can see from where his accusations originate. It does not make them true, but we are two of few who have the luxury of knowing the truth about Renaud’s charges.” The Revered Mother folded her arms over her chest and lightly gripped her elbows as she thought. Her eyes had moved from Leliana as she sat on one of the high-backed chairs, toward the view of the courtyard presented by the tall windows that dominated one wall of the room. 

Stories below, a line had massed days before, starting beyond the courtyard proper and flowing into the entrance of the Grand Cathedral. From there, the faithful shuffled into the nave to view the body of the Divine, which rested upon the catafalque used by every Divine who had come before her. Though Leliana couldn’t see the nave at the moment, she had been inside often enough that she needn’t be there to accurately imagine. Sometimes, she preferred places like this room, one of hundreds that were built upon the colonnades that arced outward from the main building of the Grand Cathedral. Here, she could see the actual people who formed the Chantry. Those people were the living, breathing reasons why Andraste had made her sacrifice. Though she served the Maker, Leliana reminded herself as often as she could why Andraste had served and sacrificed. Among those throngs of people who’d made the pilgrimage to pay final respects to the departed Divine, there were priests, sisters, and Revered Mothers darting about in their differently-colored robes, each station a different color here in the complex of the Grand Cathedral. It made the servants of the Chantry easy to spot, though Leliana well knew some Chantry members likened them to peacocks because of it. Perception should have mattered, but the Chantry believed in itself so strongly that it would not eschew tradition. Not yet.

In the end, what mattered was the Maker’s will, and seeing it carried out—even if it meant forging new traditions in place of old.

“I would have you return to speak with Ser Renaud, if he is lucid,” Dorothea said at length. “While we could find no evidence of poison, we cannot ignore his accusations of blood magic possibly influencing the rulers of one of our Andrastian nations.”

Considering Ser Renaud had been removed from his position, and was rapidly succumbing to total psychosis from the lyrium, Leliana wondered why Dorothea insisted on including him at all. “Why do you require he be told the results of our investigation?”

Grief fleetingly drew down the corners of Dorothea’s mouth as her eyes momentarily took on the distance that marked a foray into the memory of what had been lost. “Out of respect for the man he used to be. As you know, he was not always a rash, paranoid, and violent man. When he rose through the templar ranks, and even when he was appointed Knight-Vigilant not so very long ago, he’d been a man of a fair mind. Strict, at times harsh, and possessing of a slight paranoia when it came to magic, yet overall rational and even-handed. I am not sure if it was just the lyrium, or a combination of lyrium psychosis and Divine Regula’s increasingly confusing and rapid changes in temperament, but shortly after his appointment, his darker tendencies forced their way to the forefront. The man he was is nearly gone, but I treat him as kindly as I do in memory of the good man he’d been.”

Leliana realized then that she had been in remiss at how she’d viewed Ser Renaud. It was not a good habit for a bard to have, to see only the person presented to her, and to be blind to the person they had been in the past. People were not only what they chose to do in a single moment; they were an accumulation of choices, and the effects they lived with after each choice. “You are entirely correct,” she said to Dorothea. “I was negligent in not seeing it before. I had seen only the addled templar Ser Renaud has become. I apologize.”

“None of us are perfect. Do not let guilt eat away at you for a minor oversight. Besides, a fond memory of Ser Renaud as he was does not diminish the danger he and his extremist followers present. The templars have heard by now, and certainly the templars who think like he does. They will be itching to act. Therefore, we must act first, or risk our carefully placed pieces being swept aside by their callous recklessness as they seek to avenge their wronged Divine and Knight-Vigilant.”

“What does this mean for Ferelden, Your Reverence?”

Dorothea let out an amused breath, and turned from the window to face the younger woman. “You only call me that in private conversation when you are unsure of the consequences of our actions.”

Leliana couldn’t hide the flinch entirely, not under the penetrating gaze of Dorothea. The Revered Mother saw much, too much. It was a trait that made her one of the finest players of the Grand Game Orlais had ever had. “There will be innocents hurt through no fault of their own.” 

“I know. It is unfortunate, and had we another approach, I would take it. However, Renaud’s accusations and the necessary intervention of the Seekers in Ferelden will provide appropriate cover for matters that are quickly getting out of hand. Troubling as his followers are, they are not our only concern in regards to Ferelden. From their places in the Fereldan noble families’ staff, my people have heard of a plot against Ferelden’s current rulers. Enough agents placed among different houses have caught scent of it that action is required on our part, lest Ferelden be destabilized by virtue of our inaction.”

Her thoughts went immediately to Alistair, striking her with a flare of concern for his life. If only she could be there to watch over him, and if not her, then her dear, departed friend Zevran. Yet, the Antivan Crow was dead through his heroism in slaying the Archdemon, and Leliana was under command to obey the Maker’s will. It did not stop her feelings regarding Alistair, and Dorothea saw it.

Her smile was soft. “It is not a plot against Alistair’s life, my dear, if that is your concern. It could end in his death, but it is not the direct intention. Someone amongst the nobility—I’ve a list of possible candidates—seeks to replace the current family. Something about a mage being the mother of both the King and his brother, and not wanting magic to endanger the line of Calenhad should its heirs prove mages.”

“Arl Eamon,” said Leliana, a dark thread of anger woven into her accusation. Clasped together in her lap, her fingers tightened against each other.

“He is my primary suspect, as well, though there are more than a few other contenders. Your true mission in Ferelden will be to uncover who is doing the plotting. Though you suspect, as I do, that the traitor is Arl Eamon Guerrin, he must not be investigated first. Every noble must be questioned in order of who chooses to appear first at being summoned by the Seekers. If the nobles will not present themselves in Denerim, you and other Seekers must go to their estates to confront them. This plot must be uncovered and stopped. Ferelden’s stability is key to our plans.”

Leliana nodded. After hearing of the plot, she very much wanted to root out whoever was putting not only Alistair’s life in danger, but the lives of her friends. Though her first impulse was to go straight to Eamon, she knew Dorothea’s counsel to be prudent. If they managed to find the traitor in the first noble they put to question, the Fereldans would question how they knew so quickly, and their network of observers would be compromised. “I understand.”

“I am sure you do.” 

“How do they intend to replace the current rulers? I cannot think of a bann, arl, or teyrn the nobility would accept in the stead of a Theirin, not with heirs available, even if they carry the potential for magic in their blood.”

Dorothea’s thoughtful gaze shifted briefly to the window again, where the line had doubled in width as worshippers tried to push their way ahead. “They believe they can locate a Theirin relative somewhere in Orlais. In fact, they have already sent out people to find these mysterious possible heirs who possess no threat of magic in their blood. They believe they might find a bastard from among the bards various Theirins have taken to bed during their travels.”

“They will not find one.”

“It matters not whether they will, for we shall stop them before it happens. Enticing them with the idea during questioning would be an advantage, however, loath as you or anyone else might be to employ such a tactic. Just as Renaud’s unwitting cover has provided us a method of assuring stabilization, so has the conspirator’s belief they might find another bastard heir. It would behoove us to use these circumstances to our advantage, lest they use them for theirs.” Dorothea returned her look to Leliana, and then knelt in front of her, taking the younger woman’s hands in her own. “I realize this will put your loved ones in danger, this cover we’re using. I realize that using this mission as a method of eradicating Renaud’s followers may put your friends in grave danger. My child, you must not lose sight of the Maker’s will in this. The future of our Chantry is at stake, as is the salvation of us all.”

“I understand.”

“I believe you wish to understand, but I do not think you are convinced.”

However kindly Dorothea’s words were spoken, they did nothing to stem Leliana’s guilt at another person picking up on her doubt. She closed her eyes against judgement she expected to see in the Revered Mother’s eyes, even as the judgement was absent from them.

Dorothea’s robes rustled as she stood, and then her fingers gently smoothed out Leliana’s hair. “You need not be ashamed, child. A small amount of doubt is necessary to ensure clarity of our vision. If we do not possess some skepticism, we would be blind, like Renaud and his ilk. This blindness is what begets injustice and violence. Our eyes must be fully open to truly see. Take ownership for your doubt, set forth, and walk without sin on the Maker’s path before you.” The Revered Mother bestowed a kiss of peace on Leliana’s forehead, and then moved back to the window before Leliana opened her eyes again.

The softness had disappeared from Dorothea’s demeanor, her vision now on the actions they would have to take. “Go to the White Spire and find a Seeker named Cassandra Pentaghast. She is the one I want leading this mission to Ferelden. She is persistent, a true inquisitor, yet she is always fair. She will want to rid the templars and possibly some of the Seekers of Renaud’s following. She will also be the Seeker with the lightest touch when it comes to discovering whether or not there are blood mages influencing Ferelden’s rulers. Once you have found her, bring her to me and we will finalize our plans. Then as she gathers her necessary forces, you will travel ahead to Denerim as our scout and make preparations there for the Seekers’ landfall.”

Leliana nodded, let out a long breath to let go of her worry, and then stood.

“May the Maker guide you in your endeavor, my child,” Dorothea said as Leliana slipped out the door.

In stark contrast to the clamoring crowd of a queue in the great courtyard outside, the halls of the Grand Cathedral were hushed. Priests, Grand Clerics, Revered Mothers, and lay brothers and sisters bustled throughout the great building. Not only were they responsible for continued organization of the mass of followers paying their respects to Regula, but they also had to organize for the Great Consensus that would take place after Regula’s pyre was lit. There, in a locked conclave consisting of every Grand Cleric in Thedas, a new Divine would be elected.

It would not yet be Dorothea. Divine Regula had died sooner than they had anticipated, and Dorothea required at least another year before she could ascend as the Divine. As always, Dorothea had a plan in place, as she had relayed to Leliana. They had a Grand Cleric who owed them a great deal, and various other Grand Clerics owed debts here and there, ending in enough to sway the vote, which would then eventually be pressured to unanimous agreement. The potential Divine had already promised Dorothea to leave her name as heir after her passing.

The potential, Beatrix, was very old, and her death likely imminent. While they were not beyond hastening a necessary death, due to her age, an intervention might not even be needed. The less suspicion cast upon the next Divine’s death, the better, as Dorothea would be a highly controversial candidate due to her not being a Grand Cleric herself. However, her ascension was already practically assured, just as Beatrix’s would be at the end of the Grand Consensus.

Leliana moved swiftly to visit the White Spire, as if the faster she walked, the faster she could get to Ferelden to mitigate whatever harm would come to her friends through the Seekers’ actions. It wasn’t excitement that drove her; it was a sense of dread she could not seem to shake. Before she went after Cassandra Pentaghast, she stopped at the floor where Ser Renaud was being held. She had to inform the former Knight-Vigilant of their findings about the Divine.

Renaud remained undaunted. “It is poison, I know it. A Divine does not simply expire in her sleep.”

“This one did,” said Leliana. “I am sorry. Do not believe that you were remiss in your duty of protecting her. The Maker had decided it was her time to join Him. There was nothing you could have done.”

He got to his feet, simmering with anger, though he lacked the explosiveness from before. “Then find those blood mages. They must be responsible. Perhaps their blood magic has methods of making death appear natural when it is anything but.”

“That is our next step, Ser Renaud.”

He nodded sharply. “Good. See that you carry it out properly. Do not be soft on the maleficarum, nor their co-conspirators, not even their blood thralls. Magic was meant to serve man, not to rule over him. We must assure that things are ordered properly, or we risk losing our salvation. We must not squander our chance to have the Maker turn his gaze on us once more. Find them and execute them if you must—Senior Enchanter Wynne, and Grey Wardens Líadan and Rhian are the ones known to me. Find them. Crush them into dust for the evil they are.”

“We shall see it done.” The only mage on the list Leliana could possibly think might be a maleficar would be Rhian Surana, but that was just because Leliana did not know her. Wynne and Líadan were most assuredly not blood mages. There was the no-so-small matter of Wynne and her Fade spirit passenger, but no one needed to know that. If it were of true importance, Renaud would have taken note, as he would an abomination.

There was nothing more to be said, certainly nothing Leliana wished to converse with Ser Renaud over, and so she took her leave. The true illness in the Chantry, and what put Ferelden’s rulers in danger, was the formation and growth of Renaud’s cabal within the templar ranks. Leliana knew it did not stop with the templars. Mothers, sisters, priests, even Seekers had to be in favor of Renaud’s dark vision. She could only hope and pray that it did not go so far as the top with Lord Seeker Lambert. If it did, all their struggles could be in vain. The disease had to be cured, or they risked tearing the legacy of Andraste apart. 

After a few inquiries regarding Seeker Cassandra’s whereabouts, Leliana found a Tranquil who knew her exact location. “She is teaching a seminar to the Seeker initiates,” she said, the lyrium brand on her forehead still a newish-pink. “They should be in the library or its extension one floor above us.”

“Thank you for your assistance.” Leliana had to keep herself from giving the Tranquil mage a sad smile. Even after all her years in the Chantry’s service, she had yet to become comfortable with the Tranquil. They were missing an essential trait of life. She knew, logically, it was their connection to the Fade, and stemming from that, their emotions. Yet there was more that had been taken from them, like the spark of life within them had been snuffed out, leaving their bodies empty of life. Though the Chantry believed Tranquility a mercy, Leliana couldn’t bring herself to agree, not when human beings resorted to destroying an inherent part of one of the Maker’s creations.

The Tranquil woman nodded in acknowledgement of Leliana’s appreciation, and then strode down the corridor. Leliana felt her expression change to sorrow as she watched the woman walk away, wondering who she had been before her death in the guise of the Chantry’s so-called mercy. Once the woman had disappeared around a corner, Leliana shifted her thoughts back to her work, and then headed for the library.

The class was small, with only seven students sitting at one long table. The room, an extension of the massive library of the White Spire, dwarfed them. 

“There is power in preconception,” said the Seeker standing at the head of the table, whom Leliana assumed to be Cassandra. Her strong, yet refined features marked her a Pentaghast immediately upon sight. “Far too much. Preconception allows a Seeker to see only one clear, unimpeded path to the truth they already believe. When a Seeker walks that path and finds no evidence of their perceived truth, they will bend it to fit their vision, and destroy what could have been the truth.” Cassandra paused, her penetrating gaze compelling the initiates to meet her eyes. “This is not the work of a Seeker. The truth can hold any possibility, no matter how fantastical it may seem once uncovered. That is our task, our work—to uncover the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. We do not render judgement. That is left for the Divine, Andraste, and the Maker. Our eyes must be open to any possibility. If they are not, we will not see the truth for what it is.”

Leliana had to refrain from nodding in agreement. Dorothea had chosen remarkably well for a Seeker suited to the new mission to Ferelden. While she didn’t see a way of avoiding harm coming to her friends, with Cassandra leading the inquiries, harm would be minimized. The unknown factor came into play with Renaud’s followers and not knowing their true numbers. If they could not find them while on the ship, they risked finding them only when they attempted their revenge. 

Once they returned to Dorothea for Cassandra’s briefing and assignment, the Seeker was more than a little perplexed at the subtlety required of her. “I do not know how to approach this task,” said Cassandra. “My ways are direct. I question. They answer. If I cannot find whom to question, I cannot get my answers. In this, there will not be any questioning at all, not for the primary objective.”

“You must draw them out,” Dorothea said quietly. “Show them what they want, lead them there, and they will scurry from the shadows to claim it.”

Cassandra frowned, and Leliana easily saw how intimidating the Seeker could appear to those whom she questioned. “I know what they want as far as ideals go, but I do not know what would draw them from the proverbial woodwork.”

“No?” Dorothea raised her eyebrows. “Their Knight-Vigilant was deposed. Their Divine died at sea right after departing Ferelden. Their beloved former Knight-Vigilant claims it was poison, with the Divine’s death coming at the hands of the Fereldans, the monarchy in particular. These are templars who will believe Ser Renaud over the Chantry’s official announcement that Divine Regula died of natural causes.”

“Did she?” asked Cassandra.

Dorothea chuckled. “Ever the Seeker, aren’t you? An answer for your question: yes. After her body was inspected by poison experts from every assassin guild in Thedas, none found any evidence of poison. Yet, these followers of Renaud’s do not believe it. There are murmurs of vengeance to be taken upon the Fereldans.”

“The matter is certainly worth investigating. What of the claims of blood magic influencing Ferelden’s rulers? Is there truth there?”

“There is a slight possibility of truth.” Dorothea’s eyes flicked quickly over to Leliana and back again to Cassandra. “Two of the mages accused by Ser Renaud are heroes of the Blight. The third is a recent Warden recruit—I am sure you have read the incident report. She is an unknown factor, and where the accusation of blood magic has the possibility of being true. That being said, tread softly. This ground between our people and Ferelden is sown with too much blood already. If much more is shed, nothing more can be grown between us, not for a long time. This must not be allowed to happen.”

“I will do my best, Your Reverence.”

“Good.” Dorothea gave her a half-smile. “Good. That is all anyone can ask of you. To help, Seeker Leliana will leave ahead of you and your forces in order to prepare the way. Choose your Seekers and templar lieutenants wisely, Cassandra. While you choose the commanding officers, they will be left to recruit their own knights. You haven’t the time to handpick every knight, for you must be ready to depart after the next Divine has been elected.”

“I will begin at once.” After sharp nods of acknowledgement to both Dorothea and Leliana, Cassandra left the room.

For several minutes, neither of the women left behind said a word.

Then Dorothea said, “Renaud’s zealots will get themselves chosen, most likely far more than any of us dare imagine. You wish to keep your friends safe through this?”

As if Leliana’s wishes weren’t perfectly obvious. “As well as I am able. I can only do so much when the official reason for the Seekers being there is to find out who killed the Divine.”

“Alas, the infirmity of old age is never a good enough answer, even when it is the truth. People desire reasons more exciting than mere circumstance.” Dorothea made a notation in a journal she had on the table she stood in front of, and then looked right over at Leliana. “One more thing. There is a matter that perplexes me that I believe you are best suited to investigate. What I speak of is the question of King Alistair and Prince Malcolm’s mothers. I am told they have different mothers, yet we know practically nothing to confirm the story’s veracity. For Prince Malcolm, we know of his mother’s being a mage by way of Second Warden Astrid having told Divine Regula. For King Alistair, all we know is the story of a servant of Arl Eamon Guerrin’s having died giving birth to King Maric’s bastard.”

“It is a matter of Chantry record that Alistair has an elder half-sister through his mother.” It was a poor response, Leliana knew, but the first her mind leapt to at the sudden subject. She should have seen this coming, nonetheless. Information, all information, was highly important to Dorothea. Knowing the true heritage of Ferelden’s King and his brother was a gap in knowledge she could not afford.

“And Chantry records are most reliable, as always.” Dorothea shook her head in resigned amusement. “What befuddles me is that this noble conspirator in Ferelden believes Alistair to carry the potential for magic in his blood, not just Malcolm. Find out what you can. I will ask Seeker Cassandra to do the same. Perhaps we may yet uncover the truth of these two Theirin heirs. It seems a pertinent bit of information I should know, even if I do nothing with it.”

Leliana was surprised to find that she did not entirely trust Dorothea, beloved as she was to her, with the information. The idea that Dorothea’s line of questioning was a test of sorts crossed her mind. Did the Revered Mother already know that Leliana knew the details of Alistair and Malcolm’s parentage? It was certainly possible. Since Seeker Cassandra would also be given the task of determining the truth of their mothers, it would leave Leliana to divert her inquiries until she could decide what she would do with the information she already possessed. The issue lurked in the recesses of her mind as she parted ways with the Revered Mother. There would be no easy solution for this. It seemed there never was.

She did not see Dorothea again until the morning of her departure. The Revered Mother met with her at the docks of the harbor just before mid-morning, and merely an hour after the new Divine had been elected and announced. Leliana had heard the cheers rise up from the waiting crowd in the courtyard of the Grand Cathedral, and the great crashing and clanging of bells from the towers that marked the occasion. She allowed herself a brief smile before continuing down the street to the harbor, doing her best to focus her mind on what lay ahead for her in Ferelden. Her focus did not cooperate.

After pressing an official message from the Chantry to the King and Queen of Ferelden into Leliana’s hand, Dorothea took her gently by the elbow and pulled her aside. “Your heart,” the older woman asked gently, “is it in this? Or is it yet still divided?”

“I have given my heart to the Maker,” said Leliana. It was a truth she repeated to herself every day.

“That is not an answer to my question, and yet it is. What has happened to your belief to be shaken so?”

“You have seen for yourself the scar upon my breastbone.”

Dorothea fell quiet for a moment, her eyes scanning the active harbor before she returned to Leliana. “You wish your mission had turned out otherwise?”

“One does not question the Maker’s will.” She did her best not to, yet she could not stop her mind from asking if it was worth it, for everything she’d lost thus far, and everything she yet stood to lose.

“Questioning His will is not the same as questioning your own. It will be made only more difficult when you are in Ferelden, and impossibly so when you invariably speak with the King.”

“I—”

“It will be necessary, child. There is a sickness in our Chantry, and though Renaud’s paranoid ravings may seem outlandish, there is still some basis in fact. We must find the original truth he discovered before his lyrium-addled mind twisted it. Maybe their Revered Mothers have become corrupt, or perhaps one of the mages who has influence with the king is indeed a maleficar. Do not lose sight of our other goal: we need Ferelden stable.”

“I will see the Maker’s will is done.” 

Dorothea gave her elbow a reassuring squeeze, and then let go. “You must board your ship. The tide will be changing soon. May the Maker watch over you, and Andraste grant you her patience and mercy.”

Ferelden was anything less than merciful, for Leliana saw Alistair on her very first night in the city, and seeing him was more difficult than she had imagined. Morrigan’s words regarding love had never been far from her mind in the time since their confrontation during the Blight, their pinpoint accuracy unable to withstand the continued rebuke of life, no matter how fervent her denial. _Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death._ Morrigan’s voice seemed louder, and Leliana half expected to see the apostate appear from the shadows to remind her of her foolishness. _The love you dream of is something that would be more important to one than anything, even life_. There were times when Leliana wondered if love were more important to her than her service to the Maker. 

On seeing Alistair again, she questioned once more.

He looked healthy. He had a contented air about him, mixed with the constant energy that was Alistair, even with the recent spate of unfortunate events. When he turned to look toward the shadows she hid within, her breathing caught, and not for the purpose of stealth. For all the time and lies between them, her feelings had not changed.

She loved him.

Before she could betray herself, she fled into the darkness.

Funny, how she had never required the darkness of shadows to remain unseen until after her service to the Chantry during the Blight. Except it wasn’t funny at all; it was heartbreaking.

Leliana avoided Ferelden’s King afterward, in favor of observing the others around him. She kept record of movements and tendencies so that she could protect them as best she could should Renaud’s cabal attempt anything. Seeing her other friends long lost to her did not hurt as much as it had on seeing Alistair. Her other friends were as well as could be expected, considering the circumstances. 

Wynne stood strong and serene, becoming lively when working with her Warden students, and gave no indication that the spirit who sustained her was anything more than a silent partner. Líadan seemed in good health, except for the exhaustion written plainly around her eyes. To Leliana, she still looked lovely, the advancing of her pregnancy enhancing curves she had already found quite pleasing. Her spirit had not diminished, nor had the volume of her rebukes when she felt she was wronged. Leliana would not have her friend any other way. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Malcolm had matured greatly over the past couple of years. When she’d left their company after Honnleath, he’d been little more than a teenage boy in a warrior’s body. In her absence, he’d become a grown man, in body and in mind. She rather approved of his newfound steadiness. It suited him.

Yet she knew that underneath, like any person, there were certain nerves that could always be found and struck, nerves that sent one crashing back to instinct and rage and the overwhelming instinct to act. She desperately hoped she would not have to relay any of them to Cassandra, or for Cassandra to have need to use them. Yet, if he did not cooperate, the Seeker’s hand would be forced. For, if any of Renaud’s people were among templars witness to his questioning—or Maker forbid, the Seekers—they would see through anything less than a full inquest. She didn’t wish to be cause again for hurting a friend, but inaction would lead to more pain than if she acted. Giving in to her compassion stood a chance of causing not just harm, but death. So she would do her best to leave compassion behind, where it could not stop her from doing what was necessary.

Love, however, would have nothing of being cast aside. Its pain returned again when Leliana happened on Alistair in a tender moment with Anora in one of the palace’s galleries. She hadn’t thought he would be in a location this relatively remote, where she had just scouted out one of the old, bare, and hidden rooms long forgotten after Meghren’s ouster from the palace. Then she’d practically stumbled on the royal pair, catching just enough of their moment to see the look that passed between them.

Alistair had found love, after all. Inexplicably, so had the Queen. 

To Leliana, it felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. 

It took some time to wrestle her irrational emotions into submission, but she prevailed in the end. She was a servant of the Maker, she was a trained bard, and a Seeker of Truth. She would not be swayed by selfish pangs of love and attachment. One thing she had learned after her death was that Morrigan had been right.

Love was a weakness.

In carrying out the Maker’s will, she could not afford to be weak. It remained that many of these people, the people who had been harassed, assaulted, and apprehended, were still her friends. Friends, even if they would not call her that if they knew she was not at the Maker’s side. Soon, they would suffer more as she and the Seekers sought to heal the Chantry, and as they sought to restore relations with Ferelden, though it would not appear so for some time. She did not wish harm upon them, and yet she would be one of the bringers of such harm. 

It did not change her obligation, not to them, and not to the Maker. It was not a task for one of the weak. She was not weak, for the Maker would be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.


	45. Chapter 45

  
“When I mentioned powers greater than the templars, I didn’t mean the Chantry. Sure they command the templars, but that was not always so—the Inquisition once hunted heretics and cultists as well as mages, and their reign of terror ended only with the inception of the Circle of Magi. They became the Templar Order, for good or ill the watchers of the mages and the martial arm of the Chantry.”

— _excerpt from a letter found in the Grand Cathedral archives,_ 8:80 Blessed

**Malcolm**

****Visiting the sea in Denerim was nothing like it was in Highever.

In Denerim, Malcolm had no way of easily reaching a view of the sea that wasn’t sullied by docks, piers, longshoremen, cargo, ships, and noise. It churned the mind as much as the water churned in the harbor, and granted no peace.

Since they’d been given the news about the Chantry not-so-secretly attributing Divine Regula’s death to Ferelden, Malcolm had taken to walking to the docks every morning. He didn’t know why, exactly. It wasn’t like he could really keep an effective watch with a quick visit only once a day, but he felt compelled to at least look. Each morning, just before sunrise, he used the side exit from the compound, which deposited him on the street that led straight to the docks. He stayed long enough to watch the sun creep above the water, confirm there were no Chantry ships bearing down on Denerim’s harbor, and then walk back to the compound. On some mornings, Bann Shianni joined him as she left the Elven Quarter on one errand or another. Sometimes, they spoke about various political matters, each of them sharing rumors they’d heard, or directions they’d like to see the Landsmeet go. Other times, they chatted about Rhian and how she was adjusting—Shianni had offered various pieces of advice, but none had seemed to work—and a few times, they said nothing, content with the quiet.

Pre-dawn hours tended to do that to a person. Shianni hadn’t joined him that day, but as he walked back to the compound, she was exiting the Elven Quarter and tossed him a wave before bustling away through streets that were slowly busying with the waking populace. This morning held a certain chill, a warning of the end of autumn and the winter to follow. If the rumored templars or Seekers didn’t appear within the next couple of weeks, they would run into the violent autumn storms that rose up from the Frozen Seas and through the Amaranthine Ocean to batter Ferelden’s eastern coast. Winter passages were really only safe on the northern coast, across the smaller Waking Sea. But that would require travel by land afterward, and he suspected a sizable group of templars and Seekers marching through the Fereldan countryside wouldn’t make it very far.

When he arrived at the Warden compound, the rest of the Wardens were rousing, some already cheerful and chatty in the main hall, others sullenly slinking through the shadows, bitter at the thought of sunlight and mornings. Hildur had arrived a few days before, bringing along two mages she’d found on her trip: Jurian Amell, a powerful primal mage she’d wrestled away from the Circle at Kinloch Hold, and then Eleri, an Avvar she’d practically stumbled upon on her way around Lake Calenhad. Now with the two newer Wardens, in addition to Bethany, Rhian, and Líadan, Wynne was in her element, having many students whom she could teach. 

Not that all of them were very receptive. Jurian acted as if he believed he knew everything there was to learn already; Rhian didn’t want to learn anything and ignored her magical training in favor of martial training; Líadan still couldn’t get a good grasp of creation magic, which led to eye rolling from the know-it-all Jurian, and threats from a frustrated Líadan. Bethany was willing and helpful enough, and Eleri was quietly cooperative, at times aiding with instruction without being asked. Hildur had told the lot of them to shut up and deal with it, or she’d send them to mire away either at the Vigil—or the reason for her incredible lateness, which was Soldier’s Peak.

Malcolm _still_ couldn’t believe the wild story she’d brought with her to Denerim. Even then, she was still sifting through documents she’d found, Alistair helping her when he could with what knowledge he had of Ferelden’s Wardens under Duncan’s command. For detailed Fereldan history, Anora had been brought in to assist. Hildur had also held many conferences with the Warden mages, along with Wynne and Thierry, over what to do with the state of the Veil at Soldier’s Peak. She’d also mentioned someone named Avernus found at Soldier’s Peak, but hadn’t given any additional information that Malcolm had heard. Hildur’s extreme preoccupation with figuring out the mystery of the former Grey Warden fortress left Malcolm remaining on his own when it came to running the Denerim compound. 

It kept him far more occupied than he’d ever imagined, especially with the new Wardens and applicants and trainees they kept getting. Considering the events of the past months, he was grateful for the diversion.

As he walked through the main hall, Malcolm returned Thierry’s nod of greeting. Then he set to finding Líadan, because she hadn’t stirred at all when he’d left their bed to visit Denerim’s harbor. Usually, she at least shifted enough to wrap the entire coverlet around herself, if not spread out her limbs to take up the entire bed. But even though she’d deviated from her norm earlier, he found her where she usually was before breakfast: at the archery range she’d constructed with Sigrun and Thierry’s help, firing practice shot after practice shot. Many mornings, Rhian joined her for some instruction, but from the looks of things, it seemed like Rhian had taken to archery as well as Líadan had taken to healing.

Líadan’s target had a tight cluster of arrows in the middle, entirely obscuring the painted red center. Rhian’s target had arrows littered on the ground below, around, and behind the target. Only one arrow had actually struck the target, and it dangled precariously from the edge, one gentle breeze away from joining the other arrows.

Rhian cursed as she missed again, her arrow sailing over the target and into the stone wall behind it. 

Líadan slowly lowered her bow and glanced over at Rhian. “I think you might need to accept sticking to daggers or a sword, or maybe you should listen to Wynne and learn to make full use of your magic.”

“I’m not giving up.” Rhian punctuated her statement by nocking another arrow.

Líadan looked pointedly downrange at the target butts. No words were necessary to convey how futile Rhian’s continued practice would be.

“I’m just learning!” With that, Rhian released the arrow. It launched from the bowstring, straight at the target, but fell short by a good yard. Rhian cursed again, her mouth rivaling Shianni’s for the dirtiest curses.

“You’ve been at this for weeks,” said Líadan, sounding remarkably patient. “Granted, you hit the target for the first time this morning, but it’s taken you weeks. In a clan, you would’ve already switched to concentrate on a different weapon, because it’s obvious the bow is not your strength.”

“This isn’t a Dalish clan. Everything isn’t about the Dalish.”

Líadan rested the bottom of her bow on the top of her boot, her fingers opening and closing on the upper limb. Malcolm knew it to be a warning sign of a fraying temper, but Rhian didn’t know Líadan nearly so well. “You asked me to teach you _because_ I’m a Dalish archer. You can’t pick and choose where you want to hear and learn of the Dalish ways and where you don’t, and whether or not you wish to apply them according to your whim.” Líadan let out a sigh. “I’m not saying you’re a bad fighter. You aren’t. You’re very good. However, it doesn’t seem your true talent rests in archery. It’s somewhere; we just have to find it. Who knows? Maybe it’s your magic, and you just have to be properly trained in it.”

“You don’t really use your magic.”

“Oh, Blessed Creators. Need I repeat why? Of course I do. I was better at archery. I was already a full hunter by the time I even manifested my Gift. How old were you when you found out?”

“Eight.”

“There you go. Talk with Bethany and Wynne. They can assess if you should be concentrating most of your training on your magic.”

Rhian scowled and kicked the fence post. “I don’t want to feel like I’m hanging back from the fight. At least with a bow, I’m sending arrows in.”

“And once you learn spells that can take down a dozen darkspawn in one go, you’ll say otherwise,” said Bethany as she joined them. “Think about it. Twelve darkspawn at a time to a melee warrior or archer’s one at a time. It’s a good thing we don’t keep track.”

“Sounds like keeping track to me,” said Rhian.

“Velanna and Anders used to keep track,” said Malcolm, Rhian’s complete stubbornness enough to make him think fondly of Velanna. “A little competition they had. I believe Velanna was winning when it ended.”

“How did it end?” asked Rhian.

Malcolm blanched. “Badly. Anyway, the staff has breakfast nearly out if anyone’s hungry.” With all the enthusiasm of a new Warden, which she was, Rhian gave up on her line of questioning in favor of bolting back into the building. Bethany followed, with just a little less haste. Líadan watched them go, amusement taking the frustration from her eyes and curling the sides of her mouth slightly upward. 

Unlike Rhian, who’d carelessly tossed her bow vaguely near the covered storage bin where the extra bows were kept, Líadan was more careful with her own bow. She removed the bowstring, rolled it, and tucked it in a pouch, and then hefted the bare bow. “I could eat a bronto, I think,” she said, with a glance over toward Malcolm. “But I think I’ll wait a few minutes, let her get into her meal and entirely forget how awful she is at archery and how mad she is at me because of it.” 

“Makes you sound like an adult when you talk like that.”

She rolled her eyes, as if trying to prove him wrong. “Someone has to be.” Then she blew a few wayward strands of hair out of her face. “Besides, it isn’t because I’m incredibly patient and mature. It’s purely self-preservation of my appearance of being patient. I was nearly ready to give her my unfiltered assessment or shoot her in the foot. Or both. Probably both. I need a few more minutes of being away from her to fully convince myself not to. Creators, the children in the clan tested my patience less than she does.”

Malcolm glanced between the building and Líadan. “Maybe. Or it could be because you’ve a lot less patience than you had before.”

She looked ready to scowl at him, but stopped and smiled instead. “Not falling for it. You will not provoke me this morning, not so easily.” Then she jumped as if startled, followed by a frown replacing her hinted smile.

He started to question her about it—a frowning, startled pregnant woman could not be something good—but she shushed him with a sharp wave of her left hand. Then she snatched his hand with her right one, the calluses from the bowstring on her middle three fingers rough on his bare wrist, and brought his hand to her abdomen. His eyes widened slightly; she rarely brought attention to her being with child, even now, well past the midpoint. There were certainly more moments lately than in the beginning that that he could discuss his hopes without fear of hurting her, but it was still a subject fraught with danger. 

Under his hand, through the skin and muscle of her swollen middle, he felt movement. He looked up at her in shock, unsure if he should hope he felt what he _wanted_ it to be, or if it were spasming muscles. She met his gaze and gave him a hesitant half-smile. “ _Enalen_ ,” she said. “I had thought I’d felt her before, but I was never certain. This is the strongest kick or punch yet, and I can no longer convince myself that it’s merely something else. The Dalish call it _enalen_ , when who the child will be first appears.”

“Humans call it quickening,” said Malcolm. His amazed attention kept going between his wife’s face and the swelling beneath his hand, where their daughter moved around inside. The daughter who should never have been able to come into existence, and yet had, through machinations they’d yet to unravel, and probably never would. Thrilled at the idea that there was a person in there, one whom he’d helped create, he grinned at Líadan, hoping his excitement would carry to her and chase away more of the lingering guilt she fought daily.

She gamely tried to return the grin, but through a few tears that had managed to fall, the slight redness around her eyes and nose betraying how many she’d managed to hold back. 

So he drew her to him and brought his arms around her, their unborn child between them. Líadan didn’t make a sound, and he knew she wouldn’t allow more tears to fall. She never did. But he held her, and she let him.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments.

“Don’t be,” she said, her response muffled by his brigandine. Then she put a little distance between them and wiped at her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “Your enthusiasm is a good thing. But, I think I might need... I should go...” She let out a long breath. “I won’t be at breakfast, but I’ll come around later. You’ll be in your study?”

 _His_ study. He still wasn’t used to that, even though it’d been weeks. “Unfortunately. Hildur gave me records to go over and transfer, and then a list of reports I need to write and send to Weisshaupt. It makes me miss fighting darkspawn.”

She nodded and touched his cheek. “Then I’ll be by to see you later.” With that, she inhaled sharply, as if steeling herself, and strode off into the gardens that surrounded the palace and the attached Warden compound. Her quiver still hung from her hip, and she absently snatched up her bow as she passed by it.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know where she was going, even though she never admitted it. He’d have to be blind and dumb to not notice that Wynne had taken on a role that was more than merely a healer for Líadan. As someone who also had lost his mother, he knew someone else fulfilling that role when he saw it. It seemed to be good for them both, and Wynne seemed to be able to help Líadan find her way again whenever she was thrown off balance by a new development.

Malcolm had scarcely begun to delve into the records Hildur had left when Alistair strolled into the room and plopped himself in one of the chairs in front of the desk. Malcolm didn’t look up; he knew his brother’s tread and way of sitting without requiring visual confirmation to know it was him. And one never really needed to provoke conversation with Alistair. It just happened. So he ignored his brother for the time being, relishing in the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the floor to ceiling window at his back.

There was movement and then a short stack of envelopes landed on the desk, right under Malcolm’s nose. “Messages for you,” said Alistair.

Giving up on getting work done for the duration of his brother’s visit, Malcolm picked up the stack as he leaned back in his chair. “When did you get demoted to messenger?”

“This morning. I was grateful, actually. Messengers get yelled at a lot less than kings.”

After smiling in acknowledgement of the joke that held far too much truth to warrant a real laugh, Malcolm shuffled through a few of the messages. He noted seals from quite a few banns whom he knew to have female relatives—daughters, nieces, cousins—of marriageable age. His heart sank. “Do you know what these are?”

“Proposals, I’d gather. Anora thought the same. If you’re going to keep turning them down out of hand, you’ll have to consider doing something in explanation. They might get offended.”

“Let them be offended.” He tossed the stack on the desk, where they scattered across one of the open ledgers. “The rumors—or even one look at Líadan—should have told them clearly enough that I have no interest in marriage.”

“Marriage to _them_ ,” said Alistair.

“Same difference.”

Alistair slouched in the seat he’d taken, putting his hands behind his head as he did. He had that smug look about him that had yet to fade ever since he’d found out Anora was to have an heir. More than once, Malcolm had attempted to punch it from his face during various sparring sessions, but he’d yet to meet with success. His brother, much to his chagrin, really was a much better swordsman than he was. It wasn’t that he was bad—the Wardens didn’t bother recruiting or conscripting poor to middling warriors—it was that Alistair was extraordinary. Malcolm had wondered if it were Chantry templar training, because Thierry had proven to be stunningly good with a sword and shield, as well. And since it was his brother he wanted to defeat, he’d asked Thierry to help him improve. So, every day since then, he’d worked with Thierry in the practice yard right after the midday meal. 

It had been _weeks_ and his muscles still became sore afterward, and he’d only beaten his brother in points twice. He still hadn’t actually managed to send his brother crashing to the ground, whereupon Malcolm could commence a proper beatdown, hence the smug look still plastered on Alistair’s smug face.

“They probably don’t much care,” said Alistair, “since they’re politically driven. They want a connection to the Crown, possibly providing an heir presumptive of their own blood by your line, to give them more influence. I’m sure you know this, just as sure as you know they won’t care if you don’t love the lady in question, so long as you provide an heir.”

“I won’t do it.” Besides that, he was already married, which he practically wanted to shout at his brother.

Alistair let out a dramatic sigh. “Then put the matter to rest. Marry Líadan. There’s a new Divine. Maybe she won’t hate you or Líadan as much as the other one. Or she’ll at least be more predictable than the former. You know, possessing of all her faculties, unlike Regula, so your petition for a dispensation might not be rejected outright.”

“You say that like I’ve already sent a petition.”

Alistair stared at him. “You haven’t?”

“Aside from it being a waste of time, what would be the point? It’d just give them one more thing to hold over us.” Except for the pressure from Alistair and Oghren, and the cases made by some of the nobility, he didn’t feel the need to seek Chantry approval. He was already bonded.

“You never know. You could be surprised.”

“You’re right. I would be.”

Alistair grumbled as he stood up. “All right, well, I gave it a try.” Then he muttered something under his breath that Malcolm couldn’t quite make out, aside from the word ‘next.’

He frowned, ready to question Alistair about what that meant, but his brother had already gone out the door, and giving chase would only make things worse.

So he went back to work, because ledgers didn’t read and transcribe themselves unless at Kinloch Hold—he knew, because he’d once asked Wynne. He didn’t _think_ she’d been fibbing, and the possibility was too fantastic to let himself believe the logical thing that she had been fibbing.

The productivity didn’t last long.

Oghren tromped through the doorway not even ten pages in. Behind Oghren were two Silver Order guards reassigned along with several others from the Vigil to take up guard duty at the compound. The poor souls commandeered by Oghren, however, had been reduced to mere common laborers. They carried a large, flat, linen-wrapped package Malcolm recognized.

“That’s my painting,” he said.

“Aye,” said Oghren, not looking at Malcolm as he directed the knights to deposit the painting against the wall, and then chased them out. Then Oghren closed the door and locked it before turning to Malcolm. “Fergus told me about it. I figured you should hang it. Make a good reminder.”

“Reminder of what?” Had Oghren spoken to Fergus after they’d left the other night? And what had Fergus told him and why didn’t Fergus tell _him_ that he’d told Oghren anything? Did Oghren know? It wasn’t like he could lie to Oghren. His friend would see right through that before he could get even three words into the lie.

“Oh, things. Things Fergus might’ve told me over a keg of dwarven ale, a barrel of pickle juice, and a lost bet. Mostly the ale and the bet. He was too busy spewing his innards after the pickle juice.”

Malcolm did his best not to gape. Fergus had only gotten back to Denerim the day before, and he and Líadan and Oghren and many of the Wardens had spent much of the evening at Highever’s Denerim estate. Fergus, Oghren, and the others had still been at the taps when he and Líadan had left. Malcolm hadn’t thought his brother would’ve been in that much danger, though. Showed what he knew. “Did you kill him?”

“What? No! No. Of course not. I like him. He’s a good sort. Can’t hold his dwarven ale, though. Only human I know who can is Wynne, but she won’t join in any of the contests. Not sodding right. Anyway,” said Oghren, pointing at the painting, “you should get that hung up, in case those sodding noble-hunters make you forget.”

Malcolm didn’t ask again what Oghren was referring to. Instead, he stood and walked over to start pulling the linen from the painting. When Oghren got into a mood like this, especially when sober like he was at the moment, it did no good to argue with him or attempt to put him off the subject. Eventually, he’d get around to saying whatever was on his mind, just in his own way. Malcolm suspected Fergus had spilled to Oghren about his bonding with Líadan. Oghren had already intimated too much for it to be a ruse on Oghren’s part to get Malcolm to spill. What Malcolm really hoped was that Oghren wasn’t hurt that he hadn’t been told. The dwarf was one of his oldest and most trusted friends. He was also one of the most doggedly loyal, and always, always had a friend’s back. But his drinking, which hadn’t improved since the Blight’s end, made telling him secrets a difficult thing. While Oghren had yet to spill any important secrets, such as Grey Warden matters, while in a drunken stupor, that chance just couldn’t be taken, as much as it might hurt the man to discover. Though it wasn’t like Oghren would let on if he was hurt. He’d just drink more. 

“Oh, hey,” Oghren said from where he looked out the window, “them templars are here again.”

Malcolm glanced over from where he stood next to the painting leaning against the wall, but he couldn’t get a good angle. With a sigh, he walked over to stand next to Oghren so he could see whatever it was the dwarf could see.

On the main thoroughfare visible from the study’s window, at least a company-strength contingent of templars rode toward the main palace entrance, their breath condensing in white clouds in the cool late autumn air. The head of the three-abreast column had already passed through the palace’s gate. Malcolm couldn’t see any of the guards. Had they been incapacitated? No, they hadn’t been on any sort of alert. They hadn’t been told to refuse entry to foreign templars. Baltasar’s investigations and prowling by his spies had turned up nothing.

“Think they’re here for you again?” asked Oghren. 

“Me? I haven’t done anything.” And they were templars, not Seekers, so they wouldn’t pose as much a danger, if any. Easy to handle them. Just kick them out. He wondered if the Renaud was with them, even though Malcolm knew that the templar was in retirement. Yet he hoped, because Renaud deserved a personal greeting.

“Didn’t stop them the last time though, did it?”

Malcolm had to admit that his friend had a point. “True.”

“Think it’s about the nuglet? We can run him up to the Vigil right quick. Sigrun and Aeducan can sneak him out of the city. Wardens’ll protect him behind sodding strong dwarven walls up there. Be easier getting into your Divine’s knickers than it’d be getting through those walls.”

He shoved the unwanted mental image out of his head. “The Vigil fell easily enough to the Orlesians at the start of the Occupation.”

“Hadn’t been repaired and rebuilt by dwarves, back then. Look, the boy’s family. Only right to protect him. Might want to bring the elf with us, too. Not sure if them templars’ll want the baking nuglet. They’ll have to get through us if they want to take either of them.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

Oghren grunted, effectively communicating how unconvinced he was regarding that prediction. “Still, wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. I don’t like the looks of those new templars. They’ve all got that self-righteous look about them like that one stupid templar had.”

Malcolm blinked. “You mean Benoit?”

“Yeah, him. Act first, not bother to think later. Those types make me twitchy as a mage.” Oghren squinted at the templars bringing up the rear of the column. “Hey, those ones have different symbols on their armor. Not that sword. Some kind of creepy eye with tentacles.”

Tentacles? Malcolm nearly pressed his face to the glass to check. “Not tentacles,” he said slowly, dread now beginning to form in his chest. “Rays of a sun. Those aren’t templars. Those are Seekers of Truth.”

“Sounds bad.”

“It _is_ bad. I changed my mind. Go find Sigrun and Hildur and whoever else you think could get Cáel to the Vigil undetected, warn Kennard, and get Nuala and Cáel under more trusted guards. I’m going to go find Líadan.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared before. Not like this. Just looking at you is making my arsehole pucker up.” He glanced out the window again before he moved for the doorway. “Might not be able to keep from hurting them Seekers.”

“Kill them if you have to. Avoid it if it doesn’t place our side in danger. They can’t be allowed to take him. I’ll be dead before I’ll let that happen.”

“If you let that happen and you aren’t killed in the process, the witch would come back and kill you herself.”

“I know.”

“Then she’d figure out a way to bring you back from the dead, just so she could kick you in the stones and kill you again.”

“I _know_.”

“Probably shouldn’t let ‘em take him, then.”

“You get right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?”

Oghren chuckled. “Old Oghren’s more sharp than you think.”

Malcolm took a steadying breath. “Go. Before it’s too late.”

Understanding, Oghren gave him a curt nod and rushed out the door. Malcolm left the ledgers and papers where they were scattered on the desk, but as an afterthought, he snatched up his helm and jammed it on before he left. By the time he reached the door that connected the compound to the palace, he was at a dead run. 

He burst through the door, surprising a contingent of royal guards into bringing their swords to bear on him. “Seekers,” he said, not caring about their weapons.

“We know, Your Highness,” answered one of the guards. “We’re already mustering. There’s fighting in the courtyard, but we believe some have already infiltrated the palace. The guards at the gates were dead before we even saw templars on the street.”

“Ser Baltasar only barely managed to warn the King and Queen and get them to safety,” said another. “He sent his people to warn you, ser, but they never made it. Killed like the guards. His Majesty and the Queen are safe, but we’re still looking for Prince Cáel and his nurse.”

Malcolm nodded. At least his brother and Anora were safe. “I think I know where he is. You lot go distract anyone who comes this way. I’ll get them to the Warden compound and out of the city.”

“Ser.” A salute, and then the guards spread out.

Malcolm resumed his run to Wynne’s rooms. In an intersection nearby, he nearly tripped over Oscar’s still form. He dragged the unconscious guard’s body into an alcove so an enterprising templar wouldn’t finish him off. If he found Wynne, she could tend to him.

With Oscar settled, he tore off for the mage’s rooms again. He encountered no additional resistance. He opened the door and skidded through without bothering to knock, startling both of Wynne and Líadan enough that they were on their feet, Wynne with paralyzing magic at her fingertips, Líadan deftly slipping the bowstring on her bow, and then eyeing the quiver of arrows she’d apparently finally noticed leaning against a nearby chair.

Good, Malcolm thought. She’d need it. The flickering beginnings of a paralysis glyph began to form under his feet, and he instinctively cleansed it. “Seekers,” he said, before they could ask. “We need to go.”

From the back room, Nuala came out with Cáel, Kennard leading them, his sword drawn. “How many?”

“Lots. Already within the outer walls. Oghren’s gone to get Sigrun and Hildur. They’ll bring you, Nuala, Cáel, and Líadan up to the Vigil. They just have to sneak you out.” He ignored Líadan’s immediate words of protest and slid a look to Wynne. “I found Oscar. He’s still alive, but in a bad way. I moved him into the alcove with the Calenhad statue in it.”

Wynne was already heading for the door, and had snatched up her stave on the way. “I will go see to him. Perhaps it will serve as a distraction, as well. Maker watch over you all.”

By the time the door had opened and shut and Wynne had left, Líadan had the bowstring on the bow and an arrow nocked, but not drawn. Malcolm reluctantly met her gaze, but they didn’t have time to dance around a difficult subject. “If they want Cáel, they’ll want you.” He motioned toward her middle, where they’d both felt their daughter move only that morning. “And they’ll want her, I suspect.”

Her arms tightened, bringing her bow closer to her body, and all argument dropped from her eyes. “We should bring a healer to the Vigil.”

“Bethany, if we can find her in time,” said Nuala as she secured a squirming Cáel in a sling at her front. “She grew up an apostate who was never once caught. She’ll know how to move under cover, and quickly.”

“You lead,” Kennard said to Malcolm. “We’ve already lost valuable time.”

The small party ducked out of the room and headed for the compound. They met no resistance from any Seekers or templars as they moved through corridors that were suddenly impossibly long. They could all hear shouts and screams of the injured, the clanging of swords clashing, grunts from the combatants, thuds of shields knocking people to the ground. When the connecting door was in sight, a templar rounded a corner, only to get an arrow to the throat from Líadan. Another earned a cut to the hamstrings followed by a thrust to the gut from Kennard. 

But there were already several heavy footsteps bearing down on them. From the sound of it, they were at least ten, if not twenty strong.

“You get them in there, get them to safety,” Malcolm said to Kennard, surprised at how calm he sounded. “I’ll delay them.”

Líadan nocked another arrow and aimed it at the intersection. “We’ll delay them, you mean. You won’t be able to hold them for long enough with just a sword.”

She was right, much as he wanted her to go with the others. But Cáel would be in the most danger from the Seekers, not Líadan or their unborn daughter. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but he had no better ideas.

“Right,” said Nuala. “Good luck.”

“You know who to find,” said Malcolm. “Go!” It was still a shock for him to realize that he and Líadan couldn’t go with them, that they had to leave the safety of their son in another person’s arms, and even though they trusted the person with their lives and his, it still left him feeling nearly empty of everything but worry.

Nuala, who still carried Cáel, and Kennard squeezed through the door. Malcolm slammed it shut and faced the intersection, desperately wishing he had a shield. Proving how good of a hunter she’d been with the Dalish, Líadan had mortally wounding arrows in the first three templars to turn around the bend, and a crippling shot in the leg of the fourth. If it worked its way into an artery, it would send that templar to join her brothers. Malcolm fervently hoped the templars hadn’t brought archers inside with them, for he had nothing with him to block their shots, and he wouldn’t even pretend to think he could deflect arrows with his blade. He wished, though. 

Wishes were never enough. 

More templars—where were the Seekers? Why hadn’t he seen any of them?—poured around the corner, too many to fell with arrows to stop them all from getting close with their bared blades. A frisson of fear traveled through Malcolm at realizing they were preparing for more than a skirmish. Fear that he would not be skilled enough to protect those he loved and those under his care. Then he quelled the fear with a stamp of determined resolve, laced with just enough anger to propel him forward. Líadan called him an idiot, but he had no intention of leaving the closing space between Líadan and the templars free of obstacles. Shield or no, he’d provide an obstacle.

He did, calling on recent lessons given by Thierry on control and economy of movement, on advice given by Oghren about gathering his fury and knowing the right moment for unleashing it, of the basics he’d learned as a small boy who wielded nothing more than a stick of wood, given lessons by a similarly armed Teyrn Cousland. He didn’t need to think about it and didn’t have to. He took down three more templars, and Líadan’s arrows downed another. The confidence rose within him, in their abilities as warriors and Wardens, their skills honed so well during the Blight sharpened to an even finer point in the Thaw afterward.

Then there were too many, too many too close, and they weren’t fighting as they should have been. They were going for incapacitation, he realized, and not to kill.

Not so much a badass, he thought. Damn. It felt like they were almost cheating.

This close, with them not aiming for mortal wounds, it was harder to predict or provoke their actions, and therefore it became difficult to counter effectively. Distance became misjudged, and he whiffed air instead of binding a blade, leaving his entire front open for one of the templars to hit him over the head with the butt of his axe.

His helm rang from the blow, and his ears joined in the choir soon after. Behind him, he heard Líadan curse again. Then he felt the blowback of a smite, and Líadan dropped to the ground, cursing more as she struggled to regain her footing. Malcolm tried to turn, to help, to do _something_ , but more templars had swarmed around him. They pressed in so close that he couldn’t move his arms from where one was uncomfortably wedged against his back, and the other digging into his front. He’d lost his sword somewhere in the mess; he hadn’t even heard it hit the stone floor. Not that it mattered, since his arms were pinned. Then two Seekers removed his helm, and a third brought the heavy pommel of a two-handed sword down, cracking it against his skull. This time, it sent him to darkness.

Later, as he lay in the grey twilight between awake and unconscious, he thought he heard the voice of the long dead.

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Leliana. “They did not need to employ such violence.”


	46. Chapter 46

  
“It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, but few know that the Chantry created yet another order to watch over the templars: the Seekers of Truth. I know little of them myself, but I can say the following things with certainty: they serve the Divine, and they are feared.”

— _excerpt from a letter found in the Grand Cathedral archives,_ 8:80 Blessed

**Malcolm**

Malcolm wanted to reply—whether he’d heard Leliana’s voice because he was dead and in the Fade, or because he was hallucinating due to a head injury—but his body wouldn’t do what his mind commanded. It remained still, and a hot lance of pain pierced through his temples whenever he attempted to move, even if it were just a flutter of his eyelid. He stilled and tried to listen. He thought he heard her again, saying something he couldn’t make out, and she sounded mad. Why was she mad? Could you be angry if you were at the Maker’s side? Would the Maker send you to the Void for it if you were?

Then Leliana’s voice faded away, and he might have as well, because the next thing he was aware of was Wynne hovering over him.

And that his eyes were open. The pain had retreated enough for at least that. “Cáel?” he asked, not liking how raspy he sounded. Had he swallowed all the sand from the Silent Plains when he was unconscious? Asking that one-word question had been appallingly difficult. He didn’t look forward to ones with two or three words.

Wynne’s hand radiated shivering magic where it rested on his forehead. “Hildur, Sigrun, and Kennard took him and Nuala out of the city and are heading for Vigil’s Keep. Before you ask, I don’t know about anyone else. I’ve heard rumors that Líadan is fine, but wiped out from multiple smites. Other rumors say... worse things. Your brother and the Queen, I’ve also heard, put up quite a fight of their own. Whether they are alive or dead, no one is saying for certain. And the last I heard from a servant who brought me a meal, Teyrn Fergus was still nursing his hangover at his estate here in the city, and inadvertently avoided all the fighting. Since then, it’s only been Seekers and templars I’ve seen.”

Even in his muzzy state, he heard a tightness in her tone that appeared only when she was holding back on her anger. “What else?” The words came out easier than the ones before.

“They waited over half a day before summoning me to heal you. As you can probably tell, I’m still not done. Things... set in, and it takes a while to undo them, if they can even be undone. I believe I can unravel what was raveled and thread it back properly, but will take far longer than the five minutes your original injury would have taken to heal. They hit you hard, near the weakest part of the skull. You are lucky to be alive, young man. Where was your helm?”

“They took it off. First time they hit me, it didn’t do much. Maybe a dent in the helm, but not in my head. Once they got the helm, though, I think they managed to dent my head, if the ringing was anything to go by. Also the knocked out part.”

His eyesight lacked in the thing called clarity, but he still saw her pursed lips and the frown that she wasn’t allowing to show elsewhere at the corners of her eyes. “I have to agree,” she said.

That wasn’t good, he knew. Normally, she disagreed with his assessments of his medical conditions. Her ready agreement alarmed him. 

She sighed and added nothing more. Her hands, alight with healing magic, hovered over his head as she returned to her task.

For him, the quiet was bad. It led to disquiet, churning of thoughts and worries and he couldn’t distract himself with things on the outside because concentrating on seeing made the pain strike through him again. Sometimes, it struck without any cause he could determine, but it definitely hit when he tried to focus for any length of time. So his thoughts built on each other, ratcheting up his worries and fears, so many fears that he thought grown men weren’t supposed to have, and he did, and he wanted them out.

The desperation forced him to speak. “I was afraid, you know.” He didn’t tell her that he was still afraid. The danger hadn’t passed, he knew that much. Not if they controlled who could see him and when, and he’d yet to see Líadan. Normally, she would be there, glaring at him or scolding him, and she wasn’t, and Cáel, and he didn’t know if he’d ever see his son again, and— 

Wynne’s reply barely kept his thoughts from plunging into a dark pit. “Of course you were. Anyone would have been.”

“But I’m supposed to protect them. Maker, we’d just felt her move this morning—was it this morning?” He had no idea how long it’d been. “Doesn’t matter. Then there are the Seekers and I took too long to realize they weren’t simple templars, and they’re a threat, and what if they’d gotten him? The templars killed Gunnar. The Seekers, they nearly killed Líadan and they nearly killed our daughter—maybe they even _did_ and I just don’t know it yet—and I can’t even think of what they would have done if they’d gotten to Cáel. They probably think he’s an abomination or something, and he’s just a little boy. He’s still a baby, and I couldn’t protect—”

“Malcolm.” Her healer’s hand was cool and soothing on his forehead, a wash of balm that settled over him, and breathing he didn’t realize was strained, became easier. “Cáel is under the protection of the Grey Wardens. Most importantly, he is protected by people who would give their lives for the child, the same as you would give yours.”

The pain was back, hot and twisting behind his eye. “I can’t—”

“Rest.”

As sleep overcame everything, the pain receded.

When he awakened again, he felt wrung out, as if he’d defeated ten blights and fought an archdemon twice for each one. He realized, belatedly, that he sat on a sturdy wooden chair, his hands bound in front of him at the wrists, and a Seeker flanked him on each side. Their hands gripped him firmly on the shoulders, with just enough downward pressure to remind him that they would not let him stand. He also realized that if he’d just become aware of his physical situation, especially with the sitting and not lying down as he’d been the last time he was conscious, that he wasn’t entirely well.

But the vicious headache was gone.

Malcolm would have felt relieved, if not for the new headache standing before him.

Her dark brows slashed down in determined angles over her eyes—eyes that were a rather startling shade of amber. She did not pace, but her body was tense, as if she longed to pace, and some sense of propriety prevented her from doing so. 

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she told him, “a Seeker of the Chantry.”

She was more than a little frightening. Not that he was frightened of her. Yet. However, he knew that could change very quickly, because anger and the almost giddy feeling from being mostly healed from a head injury only went so far to bolster courage in the face of... Maker, he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so scarily determined. Not Zevran when he crippled the Archdemon, not Riordan when he drove home the killing blow, not Morrigan as she stepped through the eluvian.

Even then, it didn’t occur to him to be cooperative, nor was he so inclined. They had invaded his home. They had threatened his family. They didn’t deserve easy. 

He didn’t give it to them. “Pentaghast? As in, the dragon hunters? Does your family actually hunt dragons, or is that just a legend?”

“I ask the questions here. Do not speak to me of my family.”

Oh, sore spot, he saw. Well, it wasn’t like she and her companions hadn’t done nasty things to his own family, so he felt no compulsion to abide by her wishes. “It was an honest question. I was truly curious.”

“You would do well to stem your curiosity, lest it get you killed.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. If he hadn’t interacted with Morrigan for more than a year, he might have been intimidated by her cold words. However, even this Seeker could have learned from Morrigan and Flemeth what scathing, frigid remarks _really_ were. “You aren’t the first to say that.”

“I may well be the last.”

He ignored the warning in her sharpening tone. “I doubt it. I’ve managed to survive so far, and that was through Flemeth, dwarven politics, a huge tower full of blood mages, the Landsmeet, and, oh, an _archdemon_. So you’ll have to excuse me for not finding your methods intimidating in the least.” Malcolm found the edge of a dagger pressed against his throat, and the Seeker said not a word. All right, fair was fair. He was a little intimidated now, but he wasn’t going to stop. He would not cower. Since he hadn’t lost his own ability to speak—yet—he decided to continue. “Where did that dagger come from? One second it wasn’t there, and the next, there it was. Is. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was magic.” 

He had to keep concentrating on humor, cutting as it was, because if he allowed himself to remember for longer than an instant that this woman wanted custody of his son, that she had used force and tried to kill his people in order to get to his son, that he would snap, likely doing something stupid and violent enough to get himself killed. No. He couldn’t do that, much as he wanted to, because it would likely end up with him dead and therefore permanently separated from his son. Better to remind himself that Cáel was safe, soon to be, or already, enclosed in the thick, sturdy walls of a Warden-held Vigil’s Keep. The Seekers would have to siege for a thousand years before those walls would crack before them. Add in the farmlands and water sources the Wardens had made certain to enclose behind the outer curtain wall manned by the Silver Order, and the people inside the Vigil could last those thousand years, too. Well, if they had lifespans that long.

Cassandra withdrew her dagger from his throat, but the Seekers to either side of him kept their grips tight. “Do you take nothing seriously?” she asked.

The dagger had disappeared. Literally, because Malcolm had no other explanation for it no longer being in her hand, and yet not anywhere else he could see. “I take a lot of things seriously.” He did not explain what those things were as he met Cassandra’s heavy stare; he didn’t need to. The answers were obvious enough.

“Did you or anyone you know arrange for the Divine to die?”

“That’s what this is about? Really? No, of course we didn’t. If we were going to kill anyone or arrange to have anyone die, it would’ve been Renaud.”

Displeasure at his lack of courtesy flashed through her eyes. “Ser Renaud.”

“Ser Horse’s Ass. We don’t need to be that particular, do we?”

“He was the Knight-Vigilant of the Chantry. You should give him the respect he is due.”

“All right, fine. Former Knight-Vigilant Horse’s Ass.” She didn’t seriously think he’d be inclined to grant Renaud courtesy, did she?”

Her dagger flashed out again—and he _still_ hadn’t seen where she kept it—so apparently, she did expect him to be nice. “Must you be difficult? All I ask is simple courtesy.”

False bravado coupled with humor it would have to be. He steeled himself for whatever reaction he’d draw from the Seeker. If anything, if she responded with violence, it would give him a good excuse to finally physically express his rapidly growing anger. “Wave that dagger around all you want, but Renaud won’t get any respect from me. Not after what happened.”

His statement made her pause in her strategy. Malcolm saw the flicker in her eyes as her thoughts turned in a different, perplexed direction. “Why not? You are still Andrastian,” she said. “You must have respect for the office, if not for the man or woman who holds it.”

“That has nothing to do with anything.” He let some of his anger slip through to color his tone, to show a little of what he was holding back with a thin veneer of humor. “His men killed my mabari.” Líadan and Cáel, he left out, not wanting them involved in this. The mention of Gunnar’s end made him remember Revas, and he fervently hoped she’d still been in the kennels when everything had gone to the Void. Malcolm didn’t think he or Líadan could deal with losing another close companion, not when they’d just lost Gunnar, and were now going to be separated from their son for the foreseeable future.

Apparently, Cassandra had not been properly briefed on Fereldans, because her tone was so disbelieving that it fell flat. “He killed your dog.”

“Mabari. But you aren’t Fereldan, so you’d never understand.”

“It would not be your only motivation.” Dispensing with whatever protocol she’d followed before, Cassandra began to pace the area in front of him in measured steps. “Their templars, they put your son in danger, did they not? They threatened your mistress and unborn child, as well. Clear motive for any man, up to and including your brother, the King.”

“You and _your_ people also threatened my son, in case you forgot.” He refused to give them the satisfaction of confirming anything else, not when they had already dragged his family into the interrogation.

“I am aware. Those involved have been disciplined, as have those who left your injuries to languish.”

“That’s nice.” Malcolm slouched as best he could in the chair, using his posture to underline his feigned nonchalance. “But I really don’t care.”

Cassandra stopped her pacing to motion to someone in the shadows. Moments later, she accepted a thick, leather-bound journal handed to her. “You will not cooperate with our investigation?”

He rolled his eyes. “We didn’t kill the Divine, not directly nor indirectly. There. I helped your little inquisition. May I go now?”

“It would not be the first time you were directly or indirectly involved in a murder aboard ship.” She resumed her pacing, not bothering to meet his shocked stare. “Second Warden Astrid met with an untimely demise, did she not?”

His skin tingled with cold, and he couldn’t blame it on his healed injury. How could she possibly have known? He could count on one hand the number of people who knew what had truly happened to Astrid, and he trusted each one of them with his life. “Astrid’s death was an internal Grey Warden matter. You’re welcome to take it up with Weisshaupt, if you want. Good luck with that.”

“You do not deny it.”

“Also did not confirm it.”

Cassandra remained silent for a time, ignoring him in favor of consulting her book. Then she looked up and asked, “Would you cooperate if your continued noncooperation put Líadan’s life at risk?”

The threat drove him upward, wanting to stand, to lunge at her with his bare hands to stop her from even considering such things. The two Seekers flanking his sides shoved down heavily on his shoulders, and kept him from rising more than a few inches from the wooden chair. Part of him knew he shouldn’t have reacted as he had, shouldn’t have given anything away— _love is a weakness_ —but he’d reached whatever limit of control he had. They’d invaded his home, killed his people, hurt his family, and threatened even more for a useless, time wasting endeavor.

Cassandra snapped the book closed. “So there is a chink in that defensive humor, after all.” She grabbed one of the other chairs and dragged it in front of him, just out of his reach. Then she sat down on it, elbows on her knees, and peered intently at him. “Tell me what you know.”

“I did. Do you have an excessive amount of wax in your ears? You didn’t say I had to say it nicely. Here, let me try again: we didn’t kill the Divine, nor did we ask for volunteers to do so, nor pay anyone to do it. You’re welcome.”

“The Fereldan Crown has former Antivan Crows on its payroll.”

He’d _known_ that was going to bite them in the ass one day. Stupid Nathaniel. “Because they’re good at sneaky things. Well, not so much keeping decent lookouts at the harbor. The things we learn in hindsight, right?”

“They could have been ordered to make the kill.”

“But they weren’t, which is what I’ve been telling you.”

“I did not wish it to come to this.” Cassandra sighed and shook her head, as if she were disappointed in Malcolm.

Malcolm didn’t much care. The Seekers holding his shoulders had yet to lessen their pressure, but once they did, he would _do_ something. He wasn’t sure what, but sitting here pointlessly attempting to answer this Seeker’s questions accomplished nothing. What he needed to do was escape, find Líadan, and both of them leave Denerim to join Cáel and the Wardens at the Vigil. 

“I do not wish to cross the line of harming innocents in order to force the truth from you.” Cassandra stilled and her gaze fell on him with a particularly resolute fury. “Do not mistake my reluctance for weakness. If I must, I will do so. Do not force me over the line.”

He couldn’t keep his muscles from coiling at hearing the threat. As a result, the pressure on his shoulders increased instead of decreasing. Time. He needed more time. “I don’t even know if she’s alive. Or if she _is_ alive, if she’s even well. You could be trying to use the threat of harming someone important to me with someone who is already dead.” Even though he was making a play for time, the truth in those words seared his throat as they were spoken. They could easily be true. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d last spoken to Wynne, and she hadn’t even known for certain _then_. Anything could have happened, including the worst.

Cassandra’s skeptical look told him she saw right through his ploy, yet some of her resolve wavered. “I will have her brought here so you can see for yourself. I’ll even let you talk with one another. Perhaps she can convince you to cooperate.”

Malcolm snorted in derision to cover his exhalation of relief. “Right.”

“Another fact should compel your cooperation—your son’s peculiar circumstance of birth. While the Divine and the Chantry proper may not know of it, I do. Should they find out what I know, it would not go well for you, and certainly not for your son.”

He told himself she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t. Very few people knew the real truth about Cáel. So he ignored her expectant look, asking nothing about elaboration.

“You cannot fool me with your silence,” she said. 

No, he thought, but I can try.

“Perhaps this will give you something to think about—it isn’t every boy who shared a womb with a twin brought into being by a dark ritual.”

How much did she know? She could know nothing more than what she’d said, or she could know _everything._ Astrid’s betrayal might have gone no further than revealing that Malcolm’s mother had been a mage, or Astrid could have told the Chantry everything she knew regarding him and Alistair. As Second Warden, she’d known quite a lot, enough to be a serious danger. Most likely, they would never know the true extent of what she’d revealed. That information, she had taken with her into the stormy waters of the Waking Sea.

Malcolm’s fingers curled so tightly into his palms that even his short fingernails managed to dig into the skin. As he struggled to maintain his composure, Cassandra left the room, followed by most of the Seekers. They left a single guard inside, for even the two Seekers who’d been holding his shoulders trailed Cassandra out the door. When Malcolm started to stand up, the remaining guard threatened him with bodily harm should he do so, and followed up with an admonishment that additional guards were right outside the door. Coupled with the headache from before threatening to return when Malcolm had only slightly indicated he was going to stand, forcing the matter became a non-issue. Passing out or collapsing due to crippling pain didn’t make for good escape attempts.

Right, then. Plan B. He just had to think of it first. Maybe he’d even let himself hope that Cassandra’s words had been a bluff. She hadn’t specified what ritual, nor had she mentioned the not-so-little matter of Cianán’s possible godhood. Perhaps she was fishing for him to inadvertently reveal the secret. He had no plans to fall for such a ploy.

Waiting took longer than Malcolm expected, the time languishing as he and the lone guard waited in the bare chamber. Enough time passed that his temper mostly cooled, and he was better able to plan, and much better able to play to his strengths. “Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” he asked the lone Seeker he could see in the room. Others could be in the shadows; there were certainly enough of them that he couldn’t seem to penetrate.

The Seeker said nothing.

“I really didn’t think it would take this long. I wonder if she knows she’s losing momentum this way.”

Still nothing.

Malcolm rolled his shoulders and stretched out his hands as best he could with them being bound. “Think you could untie me?”

Silence.

Well, worth a shot. “How about a drink of water? All that questioning, after all. Makes a man—”

“Do you never shut up?” asked the Seeker. Surprisingly, the man had not snapped. The question had been posed rather quietly.

 _Finally_. “No, not really. Theirins make terrible hostages. We often drive our captors to the brink of insanity before booting them over it.”

“I can see why.”

“So, how about that water?”

“No.”

Damn. He actually was thirsty. “Any idea why this is taking so long?”

“No. And the longer you continue your prattling, the longer it seems.”

“Chatting helps me pass the time.”

The Seeker’s jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth, but before he could respond, the door opened to admit another Seeker. She rushed over to the guard, where they spoke in urgent tones. Malcolm easily heard the first part of the conversation about Líadan—fetching her was taking a long time because she’d attempted escape again and a guard had, against orders, used a smite to put her down. While Líadan had still been asleep, Cassandra had been disciplining the templar guard as she waited for Líadan to awaken.

Then two more Seekers ran into the room, Cassandra right behind them, escorting Wynne. “Enchanter Wynne wishes to check on you,” Cassandra said to Malcolm when she noticed his confusion. “Líadan will be brought up shortly, as will the King and Queen.” 

If Malcolm wasn’t mistaken, there was an undertone of urgency that bordered on panic in Cassandra’s voice, despite how strongly her words were spoken. She turned away from Malcolm and addressed the other Seekers without bothering to hide their conversation. “We have a situation. I require your assistance in finding more of Ser Renaud’s men among those who accompanied us here—more got through than we had assumed, and some of them may even be Seekers. They have betrayed our order and our mission. You know what to do with them when you find them.” She glanced back at Malcolm. “It is his kind who have acted against orders. His kind who used too much violence.”

“So you say,” said Malcolm. It could just be a tactic to try to gain his trust. He wasn’t buying it. Strange, that Cassandra used the same words as he’d thought he’d heard Leliana say, yet Cassandra sounded nothing like Leliana. There was nothing lyrical about the quality of Cassandra’s voice. His head must’ve been more muddled than he’d thought.

“I do. Whether you believe it or not, we are protecting you.” Cassandra nodded, motioned a Seeker over and ordered her to remove Malcolm’s bindings, and then paid no further attention to him. Then she went out the door and took all of the Seekers with her, including the guard who’d been left before.

Malcolm and Wynne then heard the beam slamming down to bar the door from the outside. The room had no windows, and no known secondary exits, so they wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. He sighed.

“How is your head?” asked Wynne, her look on him critical and searching.

Maybe he could occupy some of his free time here deciphering what room in the palace this one had been before the Seekers had taken it over. He stretched his arms, relishing the ability to do so, and doing his best to ignore the raw, red marks around his wrists. “Fine, if I don’t try to stand up too fast.”

“So don’t stand up. You were barely allowed to fully heal before they wanted to question you. You’ll still require a lot of rest for a few days. It was a closer thing than any of us would have liked.” She dug into the pouch she’d carried slung over her shoulder and pulled out a poultice. “For your wrists,” she said in explanation.

Like any other time he’d gotten injured. He was familiar enough with the routine, and at this point, didn’t much care about himself. “Is she—are _they_ —all right?”

“I still don’t know.”

Worry wormed through his stomach, twisting it. If they hadn’t sent Wynne to tend to Líadan, it meant she was either perfectly fine, or so far gone that a healer wouldn’t make a difference. There was nothing he could do about it, and sitting here thinking about it was only making it worse. “How did you escape?”

“I’m still not quite certain I believe what happened, but the short of it is that I was rescued.” Wynne’s fingers ripped open the cloth wrapping on the poultice. She frowned at it, a frown of a kind meant for other, more infuriating things. “They seemed to have been fighting amongst themselves, and I think they still are. After I left the room, I never made it to Oscar. Templars found me within minutes, calling down smites before they’d hardly turned the corner to see me. I thought it would be my end.” Her hands stilled from unwrapping the poultice as she turned her full attention to Malcolm and gave him a strange sort of smile. “Then Seekers came running around the other corner of the intersection, and put themselves between me and the templars. One of them fell back to help me get away, while behind us, we could hear the two sides battling one another. There was no mistaking it for anything less than serious. I know what the screams and shouts of dying men and women sound like when I hear them.”

“They saved you? Really?” Malcolm decided he would be eternally grateful if he could have back the faith in the Chantry he’d held as a child—absolute and perfectly clear. It had been far simpler back then, and a lot easier. Now, he didn’t know who his real enemies were. Every time he thought he had it figured out, the world got turned on its head. It meant that now he had to consider taking Cassandra’s claims to be true. He didn’t have to believe them, but he couldn’t realistically brush them off. 

“Near as I can tell, they did. Then they brought me to you, and you were in a bad way.” Wynne began to wind the poultice around his wrists. “From what I’ve managed to overhear, there’s a traitor or many traitors within their midst, and they are still hunting them down. Perhaps that is why they’ve kept us apart and under guard thus far, but are running out of guards whom they can trust. But that is speculation, since I haven’t heard about anyone else.” She gave the poultice a final pat and stepped away. “Leave that for a few minutes and it should do the trick.”

And keep his rear planted in the seat, like she’d told him to do. He narrowed his eyes at her, and all she gave in reply was her enigmatic smile.

A rustling noise from the outside of the door heralded more Seekers. The door swung inward, and a Seeker guard entered with Alistair, Anora, and Líadan behind him, and three more guards behind them. Last to enter was Cassandra, but she didn’t stay for long. “I will return when everything has been made safe,” she said to Alistair, and then left before the King could respond.

“All right, then,” Alistair said to the closing door. “You just go on and do your seeking. No need to secure my permission or anything.”

Cassandra didn’t hear the King’s reply, having already departed the room with the rest of the Seekers, which left the small group of Fereldans to themselves. Alistair and Anora looked none the worse for wear, aside from a small cut on Alistair’s forehead, and the simmering anger Malcolm could feel just below the surface of the pleasant fronts they were putting on. Excellent. They were all on the same page, which meant they’d be up for a fight, too.

Then Malcolm saw Líadan behind them. He stared, wholly relieved that she was alive and looking mostly unharmed, yet he had to gulp down an angry fear that sought to consume him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked pale and drawn, far different from how healthy she’d looked before the Seekers had arrived in Denerim. He did at least meet her gaze, and saw relief mirrored in her eyes at seeing him alive, but he could tell it was guarded, though he wasn’t sure why. He really just wanted to get up and hold her while saying nothing, but their company and how awkward it would feel for them precluded that, as well as the poultice wrapped around his wrists.

“Good,” Líadan said out loud, her voice strangely rough, “you’re alive.” She blinked and then ran her fingers over her face and hair before breaking eye contact. The bare room, as if it needed thorough investigation, became the focus of her attention..

“Not for lack of apathy on the Seekers’ part,” Malcolm said once it became clear she had nothing more to say in front of a captive audience.

Alistair frowned, first at the detached Líadan, and then at Malcolm’s statement. “What do you mean?”

“He means he was injured, but I wasn’t summoned or brought to see him until hours afterward,” said Wynne. “It took me too long to heal him, and I had only just finished when they wanted him awakened for questioning.”

“I suspect they wanted to question him after they’d gotten nothing from me or from Anora,” said Alistair. “But disregarding someone’s health, putting their life and livelihood in danger, that just goes too far.” His frown returned, and after he exchanged a look with Anora, he glanced at Wynne again. “Do you recall if it were Seekers or templars who fetched you?”

“Seekers,” said Wynne, squinting in thought as she caught on to Alistair’s line of thinking. “Do you think it was part of the infighting?”

“I’m inclined to think so, yes.” Alistair nodded at Wynne, and then turned to Malcolm. “In your fight, was it templars or Seekers?”

“Seek—no. Templars. I remember wondering why there weren’t any.” It was his turn to frown, not entirely comfortable with the direction of his thoughts, yet it was a natural conclusion to make from the conversation. Evidence pointed to Seekers protecting, as Cassandra had said to Alistair, with many of the templars engaging in acts of aggression. But he couldn’t entirely believe that they weren’t working together in some way, because they’d arrived on the same sodding ship.

“We haven’t enough details,” said Anora, stopping her concerned study of Líadan to focus on the others. “I’d thought this tantamount to an Orlesian coup, yet now I am not so sure. Though we’ve been under heavy guard, they have not kept us from governing, nor have they forced their control on any of our decisions. If this is a coup, it is a poor one.”

“Would’ve been a Nevarran one, anyway, wouldn’t it?” asked Malcolm. “I mean, Seeker Cassandra is Nevarran. Pentaghast and all that. Also, don’t ask her about dragons. Or her family. Or fighting dragons. Makes her stabby.”

“And you would know this, how?” Alistair held out his hands to stop Malcolm when he realized the question could be perceived as non-rhetorical. “No! No. Don’t tell me. I’ll just be happy enough to know you’re alive, if not entirely well.” Then he looked over at Líadan. “Same goes for you, even though you don’t look well at all.”

“I’m just tired,” she replied. 

Wynne made a noise of disapproval. “I believe the healer should be the judge of that. You look more than merely tired.”

Líadan leaned against the wall near the door. “ _Very_ tired. There were a lot of smites between the initial fight and now.” She sighed, somehow looking even more exhausted afterward. 

At hearing about multiple smites, Wynne harrumphed again. “Have you even seen a healer during all this?”

“I was told I was by one of my guards. Since I was unconscious every time, I don’t know if that’s true.” 

“Be that as it may, I’m still checking.” Wynne had already started in on examining her, one hand flaring with blue healing energy. “Maker knows if this healer of the Seekers is competent.”

“I think he is,” said Alistair. “He’s who came to see us after the fighting.”

“What about that cut?” Wynne asked.

Alistair’s hand went immediately to his forehead. “Oh, that. Must’ve gotten it on the way here. Seeker Cassandra had actually killed the man who did it. Cut must’ve been from his blade falling forward as he died, and me not getting out of the way fast enough because I was too busy staring in shock that a Seeker who’d attacked my home had saved my life.”

“Which would not have been necessary if she and her followers had not attacked our home in the first place,” said Anora. Then she grimaced, as if the words she were about to speak were distasteful. “However, I see your point. I am beginning to believe we are not the enemy they are fighting, nor are the Seekers the enemy we should truly be fighting. During the initial invasion, after Baltasar’s men were killed and Baltasar himself injured, it was Seekers who intervened. One died defending us, and another lost an arm. That is not a token defense that would be used to deceive us into thinking they are on our side.”

“And the reason why we haven’t declared war,” said Alistair. “Well, that, and we haven’t an army to back up that kind of declaration. The Chantry and Orlais would stomp us to bits and pick at the corpse of a country left behind if we tried to wage war.” He scowled at the closed door. “We’ve met with the Bannorn left in the city. The Seekers actually kept to the shadows and didn’t interfere. The banns are angry, obviously. The older ones are, by and large, able to see our assessment of the situation, that even though we _want_ to drive them out by force, to kick the Chantry—the Orlesian part, anyway—out permanently, that we just can’t. We don’t have the strength. The younger set, well.” He shrugged. “They aren’t so good at seeing the big picture, as it were.”

Anora gave a small sigh as Wynne shifted her healing attentions to her. “There have been a couple riots. No Fereldans have been killed, thank the Maker, and while the first required Seekers to subdue, the second was quelled by other members of the nobility and leaders of the city’s guilds. It hasn’t stopped the attacks on templars found in small patrols or by themselves at night. So far, three templars and one Seeker have been killed. Two bodies were left with nearly illegible notes for the Orlesians to go home. Another templar had been mauled by a pack of mabari set upon him by masters who were never found, nor the mabari responsible.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Though he doubted it was possible, he hoped, for the sake of poetic justice, that the templar had been the same one who’d killed Gunnar.

“Seeker Cassandra also mentioned something about explaining everything once she was satisfied there were not multiple Chantry traitors actively trying to kill us,” said Anora.

“I’ll not get my hopes up for that to happen soon,” said Malcolm. While the rest of them had witnessed Seekers defending them from templars to their satisfaction, he hadn’t, not really. Sure, Seekers hadn’t been among the templars who’d attacked him and Líadan, who’d tried to kidnap Cáel. But that didn’t prove to him that they weren’t working with the templars.

Satisfied with Anora’s health, Wynne moved to Alistair. The King rolled his eyes as his cut was healed. “We haven’t heard anything about Cáel.” His eyes flicked over to Líadan, who remained leaning heavily against the wall nearest the door. “Have you?”

She shrugged in an attempt to seem dispassionate, but the pain in her eyes said otherwise. “I’m assuming he made it out safely with Hildur, Sigrun, Kennard, and Nuala since the Seekers keep asking me where he is whenever they aren’t smiting me. They should be at Vigil’s Keep by now. If it all possible, I’d like to join them.”

“So would I,” said Malcolm.

Alistair sighed. “Easier said than done. Defying the Chantry and the templars is what got us into this mess in the first place. Not that I wouldn’t love to fight them with sharp, pointy objects, and possibly trebuchets and great big magical explosions, but Ferelden as a whole is teetering on a very precarious edge. In light of that, I’m not sure if sneaking away in the face of Seekers of Truth is the best option. Not if we’d like to remain an independent country and not be taken over by Orlais or whoever else would like to feast on our unguarded corpse.”

“It’s the best option for _me_ ,” said Líadan. “I’ve already been away from him for nearly three days. Do you have any idea at all how long those days are? Do you have any idea what it’s like to be separated like that? Did you know that it actually physically _hurts_? Do you think I kept trying to escape and getting hit by those smites just for shits and giggles?”

“Honestly, yes,” said Alistair, “to the last bit, I mean.”

She let out several Elvish curses.

Only on hearing them did Malcolm realize how pissed she was. Before, she’d seemed too exhausted to portray anything but exhaustion. Her reactions now proved it not to be the case.

Then she asked Alistair, “Do you really think I’m so rash that I’d needlessly put myself and my child in danger?”

Alistair stared at her for a moment, and the rest of the room’s occupants did the same. Líadan rarely so much as acknowledged she was carrying a child, and she’d just practically shouted it. “No,” Alistair said after a couple failed attempts at speaking. “No, of course not. I—”

“Were you even going to try to find me before you left?” Malcolm asked. He stood up, ignoring the brief lightheadedness as he did so, and began to work the loose poultice wrapping from around his wrists. “Or did you think I’d talk you out of putting yourself in harm’s way or—”

“They told me you were dead,” said Líadan. Her gaze on him held enough remnants of the pain and grief she must’ve felt over the past few days that it rooted him where he stood. The wrappings of the poultice came away and fluttered to the ground, rustling on the stones like autumn leaves landing on the forest floor. “They told me you were dead. I watched you get hit near the temple—near the weakest part of the skull—with the pommel of a heavy two-handed sword. All I knew was that you were either unconscious or dead before you hit the ground. That was the last I saw of you. The last I saw! What was I supposed to believe?” She pushed off the wall to glare at him, her fear and anger propelling her partly toward him. “They couldn’t find Cáel and wanted to know where he was, so I could assume he’d escaped with the others. But with you, I didn’t have a reason to disbelieve them, especially not after almost three days.” 

Her body’s rigid pose slackened, as if admitting the truth of what she’d suffered had wrenched the last of her energy from her. She leaned against the wall once more, and then slid down to sit, her knees drawn up as far as they could go against her swollen middle, and then crossed her arms over her knees. It was her way of shielding herself. “They told me you were dead. I thought you were dead.” She broke off her steady gaze on him in favor of laying her head on her arms, a few strands of her hair falling forward, covering any of her face he could have seen. She didn’t bother to brush them away.

Well, thought Malcolm, that explained a lot. It also confirmed him as Thedas’ biggest arse, by losing his temper and by carrying on like he had when she’d thought he was dead. He still couldn’t quite grasp why she’d felt so compelled to put herself in danger with getting hit by smites, but he didn’t want to risk hurting her more, so he said nothing. Probably what he should’ve opted for in the first place, because now the fresh sadness in her eyes was his fault. _Maker_. It didn’t help that his head had started to ache, a dull throb along his temples a warning of what would come. He ignored it.

The sound of the bar being raised on the other side of the door sent Líadan scrambling to feet made less nimble each day by her pregnancy. Her hands fell to her hips where her daggers would normally be, but she, like the rest of them, had been disarmed. Scowling at the door, the hurt having fled, Líadan stepped closer to Wynne, who was already behind Alistair. It was a formation they’d often assumed for skirmishes during the Blight.

The door practically slammed open to admit Cassandra Pentaghast. She immediately closed the door behind her, allowing no other Seekers in. “It is safe,” she said. “The threats from the zealots have been largely dealt with. Ser Renaud’s views were more pervasive than we had thought.”

“Renaud?” asked Malcolm. “He’s involved in this?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Cassandra shook her head slowly. “Even in retirement, his extreme views still affect the templars and the Chantry as a whole. It is an illness that must be purged from the Chantry, and coming here drew out many of his kind. He had many followers, for he was not always this way. Age changed him, and his followers’ views changed with him.”

“Ah. That explains a lot. He’d started out seeming so reasonable, and by the end, well, not so much. It was the lyrium, I take it? He’s showing the signs of his mind not quite being where he left it?” Alistair nodded without waiting for confirmation from Cassandra. “Right. You won’t tell. It’s all right. I already know that lyrium secret.”

“We believe we have rooted out and taken care of all who joined this mission with the intention of vengeance,” she said at length. “The immediate danger is past.” She glanced over at Líadan. “You will no longer be subject to smites.” Then she made eye contact with each one of them before returning her steady gaze to Alistair and Anora. “And no one else will be denied a healer’s treatment. I had been suspect of Ser Renaud’s reports of the ruling family and the rest of the nobility here in Denerim, but I did not think he would have outright lied.” Rage darkened her expression. “Nor did I think his zealots would be so brazen and numerous in their assaults.” She brushed her hands together, and the rage in her eyes dimmed. “If there are others, they are too well-hidden for us to determine at the moment. I apologize for their actions, and I apologize for my Seekers’ inability to completely protect all of you. It was one of many duties we were charged with in coming to Ferelden, and in that one, we largely failed.”

“One of many duties?” asked Alistair. “What others are left, now that we’ve served as your unwitting trap to rid your ranks of the unsavory sort?”

“My duty to the truth is paramount. There are still things I must investigate.”

“Like how the Divine died? You don’t believe any of us when we tell you we had nothing to do with Her Perfection’s death.”

“I believe you did not kill the Divine or arrange to have her killed,” said Cassandra.

“Good! So, when will you be leaving?” Alistair rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow? Right now?”

“No, I am afraid not. I must determine which additional reports are true, and which are false. I have inquiries to make, and investigations of accused blood magic to conduct.”

Alistair began to circle the room, the energy from the confrontation keeping him on his feet. “We won’t cooperate. Not that we haven’t been terribly cooperative already, but I think it’s gone far enough. Though we can’t really fight back with armed conflict, a little civil disobedience might be in order. You put us in danger. You put my brother in danger. And need I mention your little attempt to kidnap my nephew?” Alistair didn’t mention Líadan’s poor treatment out loud. He did briefly shift his gaze to her as she frowned at the Seeker.

“Your nephew is in no danger from the Seekers.” Cassandra sounded more tired than determined, at least to Malcolm, but that didn’t sway his opinion. “His attempted kidnapping was plotted by zealots. For what purpose, I do not know.”

“Cáel isn’t returning to Denerim while any of you are still here,” Malcolm said as he forced himself to move from the spot he’d refused to leave the entire time since the others had entered the room. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I don’t trust you.”

Cassandra met his gaze with a level one of her own. “That is fair. Considering what has happened, I cannot begrudge you the lack of faith. However,” she said, switching her look to Líadan, “Warden Líadan must remain in the city, as must you and the others.”

“Forgive me for asking,” said Anora, “but what exactly have you left to investigate that would warrant any of these steps?”

“I cannot tell you without risking the direction of the inquiry. What I can tell you is that I will be putting various members of the nobility to question. My Seekers will fade into the background, leaving you to govern as you see fit, so long as you remain in Denerim for the time being. We do not seek to control Denerim or Ferelden. We merely seek the truth. Once we have it, we will leave. Perhaps we might even work together after the proverbial dust has settled.”

Anora let out a very un-queenly snort.

“Oh, questioning the nobility?” Alistair visibly perked up, like a mabari who’d just sighted a favorite treat. “Could I give you a list of questions I’d like you to ask certain nobles?”

If she caught the joke, Cassandra showed no humor over it. “No. Though I understand the temptation, Your Majesty. ” She paused, her gaze shifting to Malcolm and Líadan, and then returning to Alistair. “There is one more thing. Ser Renaud reported that Warden Líadan was a maleficar, and that Prince Malcolm was a blood thrall. I must assign two of my Seekers to accompany them while in the city until such time that it is determined that Ser Renaud has lied. While I do not believe that part of Ser Renaud’s report, I cannot leave it to chance.” Then she scowled, and for once, it was not directed at them. “Since we cannot be assured that every zealot has been eliminated, those assigned to them will also be bodyguards. I mean it when I say we have a duty to protect you. Our efforts will be doubled to keep what occurred before from happening again.”

Alistair cut over objections from both Malcolm and Líadan in order to reply first. “And your Seekers cannot go into the Warden compound unless invited.”

“Which they _won’t_ be,” said Líadan. 

Cassandra nodded. “Agreed. Have we an accord?”

Alistair and Anora exchanged glances before Alistair nodded at Cassandra. “We do, for now.”

The two clasped arms, Nevarran custom apparently quite similar to Ferelden’s when it came to sealing promises, and then they were released without fanfare. True to her word, the Seekers seemed to disappear almost immediately, aside from the two who trailed behind Malcolm and Líadan. Before they could retreat to the Warden compound, wanting nothing more than to speak with the other Wardens about what had happened and then sleep, Wynne took them aside for a once-over. Her gentle magic blessedly brushed away Malcolm’s gnawing headache, and then she checked on Líadan once more. She didn’t, however, rejuvenate either of them, claiming they both needed the rest and not a pick-me-up. 

That set Líadan to glowering all over again as they quietly headed for the compound. With the two Seeker shadows following them, they couldn’t exactly carry on a personal conversation. Not that he’d know what to say, because he had no idea what he could say that wouldn’t make things worse.

He must have lost track of time during his recuperation and interrogation, because he was surprised to see that it was night outside when he passed their first window. They found the main hall in the compound abandoned, save for a few servants cleaning up or getting things ready for the next day. It seemed the other Wardens were either asleep or out prowling to determine the intent and status of the Seeker presence. Sleep it was, then.

The next decision was made mutually, but without a word exchanged between them.

When they passed the room where Cáel and Nuala normally slept, the door open and the room empty, Malcolm felt a physical pain burn through his chest. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It really does hurt.”

“I know.” Líadan’s fingers were warm over his when she took his hand, and her voice mirrored that warmth despite what had transpired between them earlier. “Now you know why I kept trying to escape. I had to... I couldn’t just wait there. Not being separated from him and believing you were dead.”

An apology didn’t seem to cover it, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezed his hand and then let go before she wrapped her arms around him and pressed the side of her face into his chest. “I know.”


	47. Chapter 47

  
“When a Seeker steps from the shadows, templars run for cover.”

— _excerpt from a letter found in the Grand Cathedral archives,_ 8:80 Blessed

**Leliana**

****As soon as the Seekers landed on Ferelden’s shores, it was a mad rush in the guise of a purposeful march. Seeker Cassandra had always been one for declarative, bold entrances, and her arrival in Denerim was no different. Renaud’s people loved it, were inspired by it, and they slowly began to reveal themselves with blatant acts of violence.

Not all were so brazen.

The ones who practiced subtlety were the zealots who became Leliana’s first priority, for they were the ones who could infiltrate the palace and wreak havoc before none were the wiser. As such, she found herself half a step behind them, practically tripping over the bodies of guards, or guards who were falling from the edge of life into death. Whispering a quick prayer for their souls as they journeyed to the Maker’s side, Leliana continued onward. There was no possible way for her to catch them all in time, not unless there were three of her. She knew the zealots would be after Cáel to curry favor with those who feared his mother and grandmother, and that they would target Alistair purely for vengeance. The time to decide came as she stood in a palace intersection, the shouts rising up as Seekers chased traitorous templars and tried to round up the innocents in danger, her choice was easier than she’d thought it would be.

Cáel lived in the Grey Warden compound, and was protected by a good number of the warriors of renown. Alistair had only the Royal Guard, and while elite soldiers, they weren’t Wardens. Her trust in her selections for the Seekers and templars whom she sent to protect Malcolm, Líadan, and Cáel would have to hold. She dashed down the corridor to hurry other trusted Seekers into place and see Alistair to safety before she went after the others. 

The Royal Guard, by and large, had done a commendable job in protecting their King and Queen. To their great credit, the templars never got close enough to Alistair that he had to engage in the fighting. Only toward the end of the charge to one of the rooms Leliana had deemed safe did they encounter true peril. One Seeker met with a sudden, savage end when they cut off the templars after the royal party. The arm of another fell beside the dying Seeker, and the wounded Seeker tumbled down, landing next to the body of a guard. Hooded and hidden by various nooks and shadows, along with the crowd of Seekers, Leliana skimmed past them as she uttered more quiet prayers. 

Then the Seekers herded the harried monarchs into the safe room. Afterward, they slammed the bar down on the outside of the door before turning to face their attackers. Given that the Seekers now outnumbered the templars, along with Alistair now held in safety, Leliana left them to save her other friends. Hope drove her forward, coursing through her body as it lent her limbs extra bursts of energy. During her scouting, she’d noted that the Warden compound would present a dilemma during an assault. While she could have slipped inside to warn them, it would betray both her knowledge of how to breach the compound, and the fact that she was alive. She told herself that her friends were defended by Grey Wardens. They _were_ Grey Wardens. That alone would keep them safe.

If only that had been so.

Leliana halted just before the corner to the intersection that led to the door to the Warden compound. She listened as she barely pushed her hood back, enough that it wouldn’t interfere with her bowstring. Then she nocked an arrow and rounded the corner.

 ****They had been too violent.

The templars had beaten her two friends to the ground in an appalling display of brutality. Her head and heart filled with outrage and shock, Leliana’s arrows sang through the air to take her own vengeance upon those zealots, those beasts who were the real barbarians. Soon, only two of the zealots remained. One bolted. Leliana’s arrow struck him in the small of the back, piercing his spine, and he pitched forward onto his face. 

The other remained, standing absolutely still. His eyes were wide and fixed on her, like a deer sighted by the hunter, and has seen its own death.

“Have you no compassion?” she asked him. Her arrow remained nocked and drawn, aimed directly at his throat. “You were briefed. You were informed of her condition, and yet at best she’s unconscious. At worst, she’s dead, which does not bode well for your own future.”

“She’s a mage, and the brat she carries most likely one, too. If she lives, she’ll be lucky to be granted Tranquility. Or perhaps we will be the lucky ones, and she will be neutralized.”

Leliana disliked the darkness in the templar’s eyes, a disease once rare among the Maker’s servants, and now becoming rampant. “Was Renaud’s influence always this strong? Did you not see how misguided he became as the lyrium took over?”

The templar blinked at her question, and then chuckled, as if she’d asked the wrong question entirely. “You think this is Renaud’s influence? Think again, Seeker. There are others who aren’t lyrium addled like that wasted old man. He was too fair, too moderate before the delirium took him. We’ve been around longer than that, getting stronger, right under your noses as you let the Chantry become weak. Too weak on mages, too permissive with magic. Things need to be changed, the Chantry needs to be fixed, and we will change it. One of our own has even crafted the perfect solution.”

“Who?” Part of her feared just what solution a creative, zealous templar could invent.

“You can’t stop him.” The wide-eyed fear had disappeared, replaced by a self-righteous confidence. “His letters have already gone out to the Divine, the Knight-Commanders, and the Grand Clerics. It’s only a matter of time. Your High Seeker probably already knows, if he hasn’t already thought of it, himself.”

Lord Seeker Lambert had always run toward the strict martial side of serving the Maker, but she was certain it wasn’t Lambert who’d come up with whatever this genius plan was. “Who?”

The templar was so smug that Leliana felt an irrational urge to slap the superiority from his face. Trained as she was, she did not give into such base urges. It would be unprofessional of her to do so. “Who?”

He shrugged. “Alrik.”

“Alrik?” He was not a templar she was familiar with at all. As far as she knew, she hadn’t seen a mention of him on any of the reports she received from Dorothea. It didn’t matter too terribly much, for it didn’t change what would need to be done. Once this situation had passed, she would have to pursue what disease this templar had introduced to the Chantry, and perhaps rid the Chantry of him at the same time.

“Kirkwall. You know, even Renaud was considering Alrik’s solution, I was told. That’s how good it was. Do you want to know what it is?”

“You will tell me either way.” They always did. They were always too proud of their superiority to resist crowing it to whomever they could compel to listen.

He nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. “Tranquility for all mages. Think of it! We’ll be rid of magic’s taint forever.”

“Thank you,” she said to the templar. Then she loosed her arrow, and it struck its mark. The templar said nothing more, his smugness gone for good.

Without sparing the dying knight of the Chantry a second glance, she rushed over to her two unconscious friends. They had been downed near each other, and one of Líadan’s arms lay stretched toward Malcolm, while the other wrapped protectively around her middle. To Leliana, the scene was clear: Malcolm had fallen before her, and she’d reached for him as she followed. Her vision blurred with tears at seeing the harm she had feared for come to pass. Reluctant though she’d been to have it happen, she shared responsibility for the injuries her friends had suffered.

She brushed her fingertips over Líadan’s neck to find her pulse strong and steady despite the elf’s pale complexion. Her breathing was as regular as her heartbeat, and she had no visible bruises. Of the pair, it seemed she’d come out of the encounter mostly unscathed, the templars focused more on Malcolm than Líadan. As Leliana drew her fingers away, they caught on the short silvery strand of a necklace around the elf’s neck, which had ended up partly entwined with the cord holding the pendant all Grey Wardens wore. The strand stirred a memory that Leliana couldn’t quite reach, and then she dispensed with searching for it when she recognized the ring nestled against the Warden pendant. She placed it instantly—Morrigan’s ring. Why would Líadan be wearing Morrigan’s ring and not Malcolm?

It wasn’t the time to ponder the implications, as she could hear Malcolm’s situation growing more dire. After brushing the strands of Líadan’s hair gently away from her closed eyes, Leliana moved over to where Malcolm lay. His head wound had stopped bleeding, but it lacked the lump it should have had from whatever blow had caused the wound. Though she wasn’t trained in the healing arts, Leliana knew enough of battle wounds that head injuries needed to have those lumps, or the swelling pressed inside the skull. Those were the dire wounds that needed a healer’s attention as soon as humanly possible. He breathed, but it hitched and paused, as if his mind was forgetting how important breathing was.

Footsteps sounded from the corridor around the corner, sending Leliana straight to her feet, her bow snatched up, nocked, and drawn just as more Seekers came around the bend. Those in the lead, Leliana realized with a sigh of relief, were some of whom she trusted with her own life. While the templars and a couple of the other Seekers who accompanied them weren’t ones she knew personally, she knew their commanding officers would keep them in line or deal with them accordingly. She could accept their help.

One of the Seekers swore when he saw the two unconscious Wardens. “We didn’t get all the zealots, I see. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. This will look bad, you know. Maker help us.” The Anders Seeker, Achim, cursed again. “If Weisshaupt gets wind of this, there will be trouble, and that doesn’t even include how Ferelden will react when they hear of this. We botched it, no two ways about it.”

“It will be botched even more if we allow either of these people to die,” said Leliana. “We can discuss the ramifications of our mission later. Right now, we need to get these two to a healer. Malcolm first. His situation is dire.”

Seeker Achim nodded. “I’ll send someone to fetch Enchanter Rhys. He’s been healing some of the royal guards who were overwhelmed by the zealots.” 

“You should find Senior Enchanter Wynne. She has healed Malcolm several times. Her familiarity will hasten the healing he needs now.” Leliana frowned, reminded of how spectacularly they had failed at protecting those whom she cared about. “Provided Wynne lived through the assault.”

“I don’t know. Things got so hairy—”

“Another Seeker party cut off a group of zealots who chased her,” said the other Seeker, a Nevarran called Ferran. “She’s been locked up in one of the safe rooms and the squad has been guarding the door since they killed the zealots after her.” Seeker Ferran looked from Malcolm to the hallway, and then to Leliana. “It might be faster if I take my squad and carry him to her, rather than getting her and bringing her here. One trip instead of two.”

Leliana glanced at Achim for confirmation of safety. He gave her a quick nod, and Leliana nodded at Ferran in return. “I agree.” She motioned toward some of the templars. “Come, get him picked up so he can be tended to.” As the templars set about deciding who would be best suited to help carry the warrior, Leliana knelt down and set her bow aside. She hoped they would not be responsible for Malcolm’s end. It wouldn’t do. Not when he’d finally found some happiness. Not when he hadn’t yet met his unborn child of whom Dorothea predicted great things. Not when his death would hurt her dear Alistair.

She pressed a hand to his chest to reassure herself of the rise and fall of his breathing. He stirred slightly at the touch, his limbs beginning to flail as if he were still fighting. “You are safe now,” she said quietly, for his ears alone. “We will watch over you. I will watch over you, though I failed to do so before. For that, I am sorry, my friend. They did not need to employ such violence.”

His restlessness waned, and he dropped back into whatever unconsciousness had taken him before.

“We’ll need to get in there to move him, Seeker,” said one of the templars. 

As Leliana nodded and stepped away, her eyes caught on the glint of a ring tucked against Malcolm’s Warden pendant. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized the etchings that symbolized Sylaise, the same etchings that would signify the ring as a Dalish betrothal ring. As she watched the templars carry Malcolm down the hallway, the Seeker leading them, the bit of information related to her familiarity with Líadan’s necklace jumped to the forefront of her mind. It was from an old tale from the history of the Couslands. It was the necklace given long ago from Mather Cousland to his wife, Haelia, before she rode south to battle werewolves during the Black Age. In more recent times, the Couslands had used it as a betrothal gift.

She shifted again to look at Líadan. Had they married in secret? She had wondered before, and now her suspicion that they _had_ gone through with a clandestine marriage grew very strong. The romantic bard within her began to formulate verse for the tale, even as she remained silent on the outside. It would make for a lovely story for such a thing to be true. Perhaps, if she could find the time, she could compose an appropriate song to accompany it.

First, she had to see that both of her friends survived. The templars sent to find Enchanter Rhys returned with the mage in tow, who was grumbling about being interrupted while he was healing. 

One of the templars with him rolled her eyes. “Like I told you before, Enchanter, this elf’s a higher priority than a soldier with a scratch on his arm.”

“It was a _gash_ ,” said Rhys. “A rather nasty laceration. I daresay the man will live, but due to your little interruption, he’ll have a nasty scar.”

“Good for him. Scars build character,” said Achim.

Rhys didn’t bother to hide his exasperation. “Bloody Anders. Of course you’d like scars.” He halted next to Achim to survey the array of templar bodies. “Where’s my patient? If you haven’t noticed, these men are very dead. They aren’t coming back without someone—not me, mind you—using blood magic to raise them.”

“She’s right here,” said Leliana.

The mage’s skin blanched under his dark beard, and he rushed forward to kneel next to Líadan. “I thought you said you were going to keep them safe, including her,” he said as magic sprang to life at his fingertips. “Considering this woman was someone you also traveled with during the Blight, I assume she was included in those who were to be protected at all costs. Because if she is, you’ve done a shit job of it.”

“She is one of them, yes.” Leliana felt the mage’s accusatory gaze upon her, even though he hadn’t turned away from his patient. “There were more traitors than we had anticipated.”

“Then you might want to work on your ability to seek the truth before your next little invasion. Even as a mage who’s been in the White Spire for most of his life, I could see how this scheme could only end horribly. Honestly, what kind of arrogance do you need to believe you could have caught and stopped all of Renaud’s little zealots before they managed to get to your supposed friends?”

Had Leliana not been a trained bard, her cheeks would have flushed with shame. Her failure had not been mere arrogance; it had been hubris, a hubris that could still lead to the death of a friend she’d meant to protect. In her rush to keep safe both her friends and her Chantry, she hadn’t seen the harsh truth—she could help one or the other to the best of her ability, not both. Never both. One would suffer because it would not benefit from the full application of her skills. Soon, she would have to consciously choose between them. “A blind arrogance,” she told Rhys. “I will not allow myself to fall victim to it again.”

“You can start by recognizing who the real victims are. This Warden, for instance. She had bumps and bruises, which I’ve healed, but I can’t figure out what seems to have drained all her energy, keeping her unconscious. If she were a mage with child as she is, I could tell you why, but—”

“She is a mage. A weak mage, yes, but still a mage.”

“Well, then. Once she’s rested up and regained her energy, she’ll be fine, so long as she dodges any additional smites your templars send her way. I don’t know what too many will do, but it certainly won’t be good. We can’t exactly rejuvenate someone to restore that lost energy. If we could, smites would be far less effective on mages.” He began to stand up, and then seemed to think better of it, and made another pass over Líadan’s middle. “The child is fine, in case you wondered. A little girl who is developing well.” Rhys stood this time, and gave Leliana a level look, carrying the weight of a concerned, irritated, and experienced healer. “And if you want to keep it that way, you’ll see that she’s not hit with more smites.”

Leliana couldn’t help the soft smile that briefly touched her lips. A girl, as Dorothea had predicted. “The templars and Seekers will be ordered to refrain from smiting her,” she said once she’d regained the seriousness appropriate to the situation. 

Rhys snorted in derision. “Because they followed your orders so well before?” When Leliana didn’t answer, he sighed and dropped the matter. “At any rate, you should see her to a more comfortable place to sleep off the smites. I can’t imagine that floor’s comfortable to anyone, and certainly not a woman with child.”

“I’ll see to it myself.” 

“Then it might actually get done properly.” He gave her a quick half-smile, telling her he knew she had tried, despite her failure. “Now, if you’ve no further need of me here, I’ll get back to the poor lad with the gash.”

Leliana waved the mage away, and one of the trustworthy templars went with him to another part of the palace. Once they’d left, she organized the Seekers and templars with her to carry Líadan to one of the rooms she’d deemed safe during her scouting. One room, the room Cassandra intended to use for interrogations, was the absolute safest. If need be, they would gather the entire royal family and other important people in there, under heavy guard from threats without. Otherwise, different rooms would do. They had to keep them all separated for as long as possible, or risk them inadvertently revealing locations and circumstances of weakness to any zealots remaining among the templars and Seekers. Once the Chantry traitors had been found and eliminated, they could release the royal family to go about their business. The Seekers’ mission in Denerim did not require control of the monarchy, and the possible continuance of civil relations with the country called for a great deal of restraint in how they conducted their investigation. However, in the end, the investigation had to be conducted. The traitor in the midst of the Fereldan nobility had to be found.

The party gently bearing the unconscious Líadan slowly walked down the corridor, Leliana following behind them. Then she remembered the bow that had been on the ground just beyond the elf’s fingers, and she quickly returned to fetch it. In her hands, the weight and balance felt perfect, and the shaping of the ironwood was exquisite. The bow was a fine example of Dalish craftsmanship, and worthy of only the best archers. Because Líadan could not do it herself, Leliana carefully removed the bowstring, as any archer would do once they hadn’t need of it. The familiar action returned some of her feelings of normalcy, and on seeing her two injured friends brought to aid, some of her self-assurance returned, as well.

It wasn’t until hours later that Leliana discovered she had been deceived.

From the shadows in the far corners of the interrogation room, Leliana watched as Cassandra put Wynne to question. On Cassandra’s part, it was not a full, involved questioning. Wynne’s position in the court didn’t afford her much time for interaction with the nobility beyond the immediate circle of the monarch and their family. Yet, appearances had to be maintained, and so Wynne was questioned.

Except Wynne did not submit to the questioning. Instead, she immediately began scolding Cassandra. “You haven’t let me tend to the wounded, and I highly doubt either side came through that battle unscathed.”

“We brought a healer of our own with us,” said Cassandra, her expression only slightly perplexed at Wynne’s audacity.

“Any healer you bring is not me.” While one could hear Wynne’s statement and believe the mage said it out of arrogance, it was not. Wynne was one of the most talented healers among the magi, if not the most talented Thedas had seen for quite some time. “You put lives at risk by keeping me—”

“Your son is nearly as talented as you,” Cassandra said mildly.

Wynne went silent, and her body stiffened, hands opening and closing in her lap. “You brought him on purpose? To what end? Leverage over me? You wish me to betray my—”

“We did bring him on purpose, but not the purpose you assume. No. Enchanter Rhys was brought because he is the best healer at the White Spire, possibly the best in all the Circles, second only to his mother. We did not dare bring anyone of lesser skill, should the worse have occurred.”

“Flattery will—”

“I do not flatter. I speak the truth. Had another mage possessed more skill, he or she would have been brought instead of Enchanter Rhys. He has been healing the wounded, aside from the injured to whom you were brought.”

Wynne raised her eyebrows. “I was brought to no one, and no one was brought to me as I cooled my heels under the supposed guard of your templars. Do you think I am able to heal from afar? I cannot.”

Cassandra cursed. “You were supposed to have healed Prince Malcolm. He was injured in the attack, and—”

Leliana didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, as she had slipped silently out the door out of Wynne’s field of vision, and raced to find out where Malcolm was. Did he even remain in the palace? It took far too long to find him, her heart straining in its fear that her friend had died while denied a healer’s aid. She spied one of the templars who’d carried him away from where he’d fallen next to Líadan. He loitered outside a nondescript door, and Leliana knew she’d found where they’d secreted Malcolm away. She dispensed with the templar and pushed his body into an alcove. Then she grabbed a rag from one of the pouches at her belt in order to clean the blood from her hands as she entered the room.

A lone templar stood over where Malcolm had been dumped in a heap on the floor. Her friend had languished here for hours, and even from the doorway, Leliana could hear how shallow and labored his breathing had become. It was far worse than it had been when she’d found him earlier.

 ****“You did not need to neglect him,” Leliana said as she slowly finished wiping the blood from her hands on the rag, and then stuffed it into a pouch. “A head injury has the chance of leaving lasting trauma, no matter how well it’s healed, magic or otherwise. We need his wits intact.” She frowned at the young templar who’d been with the party charged with bringing Malcolm to Wynne—his Seeker lieutenant now suspiciously absent. She’d thought they’d properly vetted this one, as they had with each member of the party they had sent to fetch Malcolm and Líadan. It was meant to be a protective measure, and not what it had turned into.

“And I wish I could have done more to him,” said the templar. “He and his knife-ear killed eight of us before we could put them down. Seven died right away, and the eighth, an hour later, his guts too damaged to be healed. We should have been allowed to kill them in the first place, none of this ‘bring them in alive with as little damage as possible’ garbage. It felt good to bring that feral dog down.” He spit on the floor next to Malcolm’s unmoving body.

Her eyes flicked to the hilt of the two-hander sticking up over his shoulder. “It was you who did so?” 

A proud smile lit the young man’s face. “It was.”

“You should have learned more from the example Andraste left us,” said Leliana.

The young man gave her a puzzled look, a look that grew only more puzzled when her knife slid home, and then he lurched forward before collapsing to the ground. 

Feral dog, indeed.

Moments later, Cassandra marched down the corridor with Wynne in tow, their approach loud enough to give Leliana time to duck into the shadows with the body of the second templar.

“Maker forgive you,” Wynne said once they’d entered the room. “If this can be done, if I can bring this young man back to who he was, it will take me hours.” 

The length of time unsettled Leliana, for she knew how great Wynne’s talent was, and how serious the injury if it took her that much work.

“Will you require lyrium?” asked Cassandra.

“Likely.”

“What of the assistance of another healer? Would that hasten the process?”

A silence came from Wynne, and Leliana could imagine the purse of the mage’s lips as she considered aid from someone she was not prepared to meet. Then Wynne sighed in resignation. “Yes, it would.”

Cassandra signaled another Seeker to fetch Rhys, and Wynne set to work, the power of her magic nearly overpowering the room.

While Leliana wished to stay to hear what Malcolm’s prognosis would be, she couldn’t afford to waste the hours it would take. She finally had the name of the Seeker who’d turned zealot. Ferran. He had to be hunted down and eliminated before he could cause more damage.

Leliana prowled the palace grounds for hours, but hadn’t yet found Ferran by the time a messenger fetched her to hear what information Wynne had on Malcolm’s condition. When Leliana arrived at the small room, she discovered that Rhys had already been escorted out, and had been constantly watched so that he could not pass on information about Líadan. She waited outside the door and listened as Cassandra went in.

“What news?” asked Cassandra.

“He will recover, in time. But he can’t keep taking these kinds of blows to the head, not if he wants to keep his faculties the way they are. If this trend of his continues, his mind will become feeble. I’ve seen it before in knights and men-at-arms, and I’ve no wish to see it again. Certainly not in someone so young.”

“Good. When can he be awakened?”

“By us?” Leliana easily heard the astonishment in Wynne’s voice. “Not anytime soon. The best course is to allow him to wake up on his own. His mind will know best when it’s healed enough.”

“We haven’t the time to wait. How badly would he be affected if we were to wake him now?”

“Now? Did you listen to nothing I told you? If you wake him now, you will undo all the work I have just done. If that is what you wish—”

“Do not be ridiculous. Of course I do not wish it. However, we will require him to be awake for questioning as soon as possible.”

“Questioning, yes. Searching for whatever truth it is you seek regarding the Divine’s death, no matter that she was clearly suffering from dementia and other ailments that could have caused her death, no. What you—”

Cassandra cleared her throat, bringing a momentary halt to Wynne’s tirade. “Senior Enchanter, how soon can he be awakened?”

“Give him at least three days.”

“Three days? Impossible. I will give you two, but no more. We have not the luxury of time.”

When Wynne spoke again, she was hesitant and uncertain. “Someone should... someone should let his family know that he is alive.”

“That is neither here nor there, mage.”

Wynne’s tone sharpened at the Seeker’s seeming cruelty. “Are they even alive?”

“Alive or dead, it is not your place to know. Your place is to see that Prince Malcolm is healed, nothing more. You will notify me if he awakens before two days has passed.” Without waiting for acknowledgment of her order, Cassandra strode out the door.

After she had closed the door to the small room, Cassandra dropped the stony expression she maintained while putting people to question. Once gone, it allowed Leliana to see the flicker of humanity that made Cassandra a fair Seeker, though brusque and rough around the edges, and not a zealot. “I do not like leaving them to agonize over whether or not their loved ones are alive or dead,” she said quietly to Leliana.

“It is a measure to help keep them safe.” They had to take every step they could to assure that what had happened would not happen again. Though painful, keeping each of them from knowing the fate of the others was one such step. Keeping them in ignorance would allow the Seekers better control of who knew what information, and to be better able to track leaks to their sources.

“There are those who would liken it to torture, and I would not disagree.” Cassandra removed one of her gloves long enough to straighten hair that had landed in disarray during the day’s events. Then she put the glove back on, the day not close to being over. “You have not found Ferran?”

“No.”

The severe look returned to Cassandra’s eyes. “I would have expected better of a Nevarran than to turn traitor. Come. If we are to succeed by any measure, we have much to discuss.”

As if it had become her penance for her failure, Leliana spent the following days constantly searching for Ferran. Cassandra did all the questioning, keeping up the facade that the Seekers were looking for Divine Regula’s assassin within Ferelden’s royal palace. Of course, no one cooperated, not from the lowliest servant up to the King and Queen. They believed the Seekers to be intruders, to be their captors, and sought to free themselves of their presence. 

The urge to fight did not contain itself within the walls of the palace. As Leliana hunted Ferran and his ilk, she scoured Denerim. In doing so, she overheard much, and was able to get a good idea of Ferelden’s state of mind.

It wasn’t good; it was angry. The anger expressed itself in the younger set with calls for insurrection and rebellion, with templars and Seekers murdered in dark alleys. The older set was no less angry, but they practiced restraint. They waited, they plotted, and they strategized for the right time and place to strike at the Chantry. Leliana recognized the wisdom of those who had lived through the Occupation, those who were familiar with this sort of fight. For as much as the younger Fereldans—and even the older Fereldans—wished to fight back, they truly could not, not outright.

Ferelden was weak. Leliana knew it, Ferelden knew it, Thedas knew it, though there was a tacit agreement between each of Thedas’ countries and city-states not to openly discuss Ferelden’s martial weakness. Were any country eager to annex the young nation, they could easily do so. Between the recent Blight, the civil war, and then Regula’s march on Highever, Ferelden was ripe for the picking, and Thedas was doing its best to ignore it. Should the Fereldans strike against the Chantry, however, would render null and void the unspoken agreement not to invade the nation that had just defeated the Fifth Blight. So as the younger Fereldans called for war, their elders commanded them to wait, to be patient as they played the long game, where Ferelden would ultimately come out on top and stay there, if done right.

While their advice was largely heeded, it did nothing to stop the killings of non-Fereldan templars or Seekers who walked the streets of Denerim alone or in pairs after dark.

Two days later, Leliana still had not located Ferran. He and his agents had not struck where the Seekers could be witnesses, but they’d had to change the guards assigned to Líadan’s room several times. Despite orders to the contrary, they kept using smites, and Enchanter Rhys became angrier with each incident. “This has to stop,” he said to Cassandra and Leliana. “I don’t care what it takes, but you have to get your bloody templars to stop smiting her, or Maker knows what will happen to her and her baby. No one is built to take smites like this in such close succession, and that goes for someone in good health, who also isn’t growing a second tiny person.”

“I cannot guard her myself, or I would,” said Leliana. 

Rhys rounded on her. “Then maybe you should have thought of that before you plunged into this mission of yours!”

“Enchanter,” Cassandra said as she stepped between them. “Enough. New guards will be assigned, and they will not resort to smiting to stop an elf, Grey Warden or no.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Then Rhys stalked away before Cassandra could say anything more on the matter.

He wasn’t the only mage who scolded them that day. On receiving Cassandra’s orders to wake up Malcolm, Wynne reacted exactly as Leliana had predicted—badly. Only when Cassandra threatened to disallow Wynne from attending to him further, thereby cutting short the healing he required, did Wynne cooperate. Her invectives against the Seekers did not stop, however, especially when Cassandra had Malcolm placed in a chair in a bare room to be questioned before having Wynne wake him. So that he would feel entirely out of his element—for Leliana had witnessed Seekers do such things before—Wynne was forced from the room before he fully came to. He would not be allowed the comfort of a friendly face. He would immediately face the intense, dark look of Cassandra Pentaghast.

Leliana did not envy him.

Much as she wanted to observe the questioning, to advise when Cassandra should take a step back from true insult of the Fereldans, her main task was still to eliminate Ferran. She’d not thought the urgency she’d felt before could strengthen, but strengthen it had. Time was growing short, for the longer Ferran walked freely, the more people he would be able to hurt. While Cassandra interrogated Malcolm, Leliana found two dead templars, and one dead servant beyond. Her heart beat rapidly at the idea of catching up with Ferran, but the trail went cold within steps of the dead bodies.

As Leliana struggled to keep her composure at losing Ferran’s trail, Cassandra came striding up beside her. Leliana frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be questioning Malcolm?”

“He is infuriating.” 

She almost chuckled at Cassandra’s show of temper. “I did warn you.”

“He takes nothing seriously.”

“He acts as if he doesn’t, when in fact he takes a lot quite seriously. And Alistair is far worse than Malcolm is.”

“I may have stepped over the line.” Cassandra sharply shook her head. “No. I did step over the line.”

“What happened?”

“I used the threat of harm to Líadan against him.”

Leliana winced. “Unfortunate, as those tactics will do little to compel his cooperation.”

“Which is why, as a show of good faith, I’m bringing her into the interrogation room to prove that she is unharmed.”

The primary requirement of which was that Líadan was unharmed, and when they arrived at the guarded doorway of the room Líadan was being kept in, they found the requirement unmet. Líadan lay motionless on the floor, with a few frightened templars milling around her. Other than being unconscious once again, the elf seemed to be unharmed. Leliana inwardly cursed; she’d been certain these templars could be trusted.

“Were your orders so complicated that you could not follow them? Or are you simply that afraid of a mage’s potential power?” Leliana asked as she knelt to check on her friend. 

But a not-so-lenient Cassandra already had her sword half-drawn. “Andraste help me, if you are—”

The younger templar threw his hands in the air to ward off Cassandra’s ire. “She came right at me! Should’ve seen the look on her face! I wouldn’t say she was possessed, but she looked like she could do anything. Like a she-dragon, she was!”

Cassandra gave the templar a flat look. “A dragon? Tell me another lie.”

Leliana thought they at least had the right person with them should they find themselves facing a real dragon. Momentarily taking her eyes off Líadan, she signaled one of the templars and mouthed for him to go get Enchanter Rhys. He nodded sharply and set off at a run. These templars, though they’d used a smite on Líadan after being ordered not to, did not act the same way the others had. Perhaps there was some merit to their actions, however dimwitted they were.

“Wasn’t like you saw her,” the templar muttered. “Sodding Dalish can be scary. You’ve no idea.”

Cassandra sighed. “Have we no templars left who aren’t afraid of Dalish elves?”

Most of the templars present studied their feet, the walls, the ceiling, their hands—anything except meet Cassandra’s gaze.

“I wasn’t before I met that one,” one of them finally said. “You’d think a little pregnant elf would be a pushover, but no. She’d push _you_ over and rip your heart out if you got in her way.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying she wasn’t even using magic?”

“Maker, no! She didn’t!” said the first templar. “I think I would’ve been less scared if she had.”

“And yet you felt you had to smite her?” asked Cassandra.

“There wasn’t any other way to stop her,” said a third templar. “And if she’d gotten past this section, we couldn’t have guaranteed her safety. We did what we had to, Seekers. None of us are the sort who’d enjoy endangering anyone, much less a woman with child. But with those other templars and maybe a Seeker running loose, she could’ve been killed out there.”

Leliana stood to focus her own irritation on the too easily cowed templars. “Did you explain this to her?” While Líadan had a considerable temper, she was not one to completely ignore reason, either.

“When would I have done that? While she was threatening to castrate me for getting in her way? Or when she was cursing at me for being her captor?”

It was Leliana’s turn to sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps you should consider taking control of the situation before it gets out of hand.”

“That’s just it. It was in control, we blinked, and then it wasn’t.” The second templar chucked a thumb at the first. “Hallam brought in some water while he checked to make sure she was breathing, since we hadn’t heard her wake up. Next thing he knew, he was jumping around every which way to block her from bolting. It was just crazy. She wouldn’t listen at all, and definitely not to reason, so—”

“Considering she likely believes her lover and father of her child to be dead, I’m not sure ‘rational’ is something she’s entirely capable of right now,” said Rhys as he approached the group. “Chew on that one for a moment.” Without waiting for answers, he bent to examine Líadan.

Cassandra clenched her jaw. “I was going to rectify that by bringing her to see him, and these imbeciles had gone and hit her with a smite yet again.”

“I told you, Seeker! It was the only way to keep her from running off!”

“There is always another way, Knight-Corporal Hallam.” Cassandra leveled a heavy look at him, but anything else she had to say was cut off by the sprinting approach of two Seekers.

As the one in heavy armor bent to catch her breath, the other in light armor said, “We saw Seeker Ferran. He’s heading for the teyrn of Highever’s Denerim estate with half a company following him. There’s others here around the castle, too—”

A crossbow bolt struck the back of the Seeker’s neck, and he collapsed to the floor. The templars and Seekers near Líadan dropped to the ground to avoid the next bolts. Leliana put her body over Líadan’s, while at the same time, Rhys cast a protective aura around them. 

“Bring her to the interrogation room,” Cassandra said to two of the templars, and then pointed at Líadan. “See that she makes it there alive and unharmed, or so help me, I will flog you myself.”

“Be hard if we have to carry her,” said one of them.

“I’ll have her awake in a moment,” said Rhys.

Cassandra nodded. “I’ll get Enchanter Wynne. Then we will take a group to fetch the King and Queen and bring them to the interrogation room as well. I want an entire company guarding it. They are not to be harmed, they are not to be abducted, and they are certainly not to be killed.” 

“Yes, Seeker,” said the templars, ducking again as another bolt sailed their way, but was deflected by Rhys’ aura.

Only a look was exchanged between Cassandra and Leliana, for that was all that was needed. Leliana pointed at two templars as she stood. She had a traitor to find before he could hurt the brother of someone she cared about.

It took far too long to get through the devolving situation in the palace, with templars and Seekers openly battling each other, sides having finally been revealed. Leliana gathered more to her side as she weaved through the combatants. If Ferran had half a company, she needed a greater number than that in order to stop him. 

She arrived too late.

Ferran had already been killed, his body splayed out on the cobblestones in front of the Highever estate’s doors. Crossbow bolts stuck out of his chest, along with one protruding from his eye. From where Leliana stood, she could count at least three Grey Wardens standing in the estate’s front windows, and Highever guards stood in all the others. The templars who’d accompanied Ferran scattered, and Leliana’s group gave chase. 

It took the entire night to track down and eliminate them all. At first, they’d believed themselves facing different attackers when they were confronted by men and women from the same groups who’d taken to killing unwary templars found on the streets after dark. A plea from one Seeker gave them cause to hesitate, and then they even deigned to listen to another Seeker’s breathless explanation of events.

“So these templars you’re chasing, they’re the ones who keep trying to kill our King?”

“Aye,” replied the Seeker who hailed from Starkhaven.

“It seems we have the same enemy, then,” said the man. “Think some mabari who’re decent at tracking will be of some help? They might want to get in on the killing, too. I promise I won’t let them bite you, seeing as we’re on the same side for now.”

“Any help you could provide would be welcome,” said Leliana.

“Let’s get to the hunt.” The man whistled and a few mabari responded, bounding from the shadows. The Fereldan chuckled when the Starkhavener seemed startled at the size of the dogs. “First time seeing a real mabari? They always get that reaction. Wait till you see them follow complicated orders.”

“They do that?”

“When it suits them, they do. They’re called stubborn for a reason.”

As the sun’s light began to tinge the eastern sky pink, the last of Ferran’s traitors had been brought to justice. The citizens who had set aside their difference in order to help exchanged nods with the Seekers, and stole quietly back into the city.

Outsiders kept to their belief that Fereldans were little more than barbarians who responded only to violence. Many times, Leliana believed it to be the other way around. Considering the response of the Fereldans that night, the situation was far more complicated than she could hope to comprehend, much control.

 Dorothea would have to be summoned to Denerim. There was no other way this mission could be accomplished successfully.  Without Dorothea’s Maker-inspired guidance, they would fail again.

The sun had not yet broken over the Amaranthine Ocean, and Leliana kept to the shadows as she cut through the Grey Warden compound. Being close to the Wardens brought back her memories of friends she had been forced to abandon during the Blight.

Then she thought she’d heard one of them, then two, and ignoring her tiredness, she stopped to investigate. Even before she could see them, she recognized the participants. 

Malcolm’s voice was strained, as if he were trying to keep anger from showing, and failing spectacularly. “How is it even rational that you’d put yourself in danger because you thought I was dead? How is rational to nearly get yourself killed?” 

Of course, Líadan was angry that Malcolm was angry, because that was always how she protected her own vulnerabilities. “How can you even define what sort of reaction is rational when it comes to watching your bondmate be killed and being able to do _nothing_ to stop it?”

“I’m not—”

“No, you aren’t. If you saw the same happen to me, if you _thought_ you watched me die, there’s no possible way you could predict how you’d react. There’s no way, not for anyone, because you have no idea until it happens.”

“But to do what you were doing, throwing your life away—”

“I was trying to find what was left of it!” Líadan shouted, and Malcolm remained silent in the face of her outburst. Though Líadan’s voice dropped to a pained whisper, she went on. “I thought you were gone. And between bearing this child and bonding with you, the home I had before you was gone to me, too. All that was left was Cáel and the Wardens. I had to get to them because... I don’t know. It wasn’t rational, but it’s what I felt. And until you go through the same thing, don’t you dare judge me for it.”

“I don’t want to go through the same thing.”

“I don’t want you to, either.”

Mind alight with confirmation that there had been a clandestine marriage, Leliana took herself out of hearing distance, having already encroached too far on their privacy. She took solace in that at least no one else could intrude upon them, aside from other Grey Wardens. Had she not broken into the Warden compound during the Blight, she wouldn’t have known how to access the inner courtyard that usually offered Wardens full privacy while outdoors. The only people who stood a chance of overhearing Malcolm and Líadan were either Wardens or one of the Wardens’ entirely loyal staff. 

The Wardens chose well, and they compensated fantastically in exchange for their secrecy and loyalty. Added that these staff members were Fereldan, and no one stood a chance at breaking them. Neither Leliana nor any of Dorothea’s other agents had been able to get any information from the compound’s staff, not through threats and not through coin.

Luckily, there was no need to compromise one of the staff members. Leliana held the knowledge Dorothea and the Seekers wanted, and she would keep it to herself unless the Maker’s will made it absolutely necessary to divulge it. And now she had more information—she knew her friends had married in secret. Ser Renaud had voiced his suspicions, more than once, but had not found a single shred of evidence to support his assumption. Hearing confirmation filled Leliana with no small amount of glee, and it took all her resolve not to squeal in delight. Not because Renaud’s suspicions had been confirmed, but because two of her friends had found happiness with each other, even after all that had passed, right under the Chantry’s nose.

If the Chantry did not know of their union, then they had not gone through the Chantry at all. Dalish, then, she assumed. Yet a request for a dispensation had not been submitted. If one had, Dorothea would have known, and she would have told Leliana.

She could get this done for them. It was the least she could do to begin the penance she owed to all the friends she’d had during the Blight. Though repentance would not be enough to absolve her guilt in their eyes, she had to try. Perhaps the Maker would grant her forgiveness, but her friends’ ability to forgive was their own. Most likely, there wasn’t enough penance on Thedas that could earn their forgiveness. One thing she was absolutely certain of—they would never trust her again when they discovered she was not at the Maker’s side.

Yet that did not change her obligation, not to them, and not to the Maker.


	48. Chapter 48

“So we return to my original dilemma. Who watches powers greater than that of the templars? One assumes it’s the Divine, but how much could She know about their activities when their very existence is a mystery to most?” ****

— _excerpt from a letter found in the Grand Cathedral archives,_ 8:80 Blessed

**Líadan**

****Líadan felt no relief as she watched the Seeker ship sail from Denerim’s port, even though she knew a number of the suspected radical templars—those not outright killed by the Seekers, at least—were prisoners on it. Irritation remained with her in relief’s stead, wrapping her in a cloak of tension when her body was already changing and behaving in ways that made her uneasy and unprepared for battle. The violence-prone templars had departed, and they were supposedly safe. Yet, they were not, not as long as the Seekers remained, asking question after infernal question in the name of their Creators-forsaken Maker.

Even now, two Seekers stood nearby, their watchers for the day. “I’m back to having a templar shadow,” Líadan said to Malcolm. 

“I’m no templar,” said one of their Seeker guards.

She took the comment as invitation. “You have a templar’s abilities and you are employed by your Chantry. I see no difference. If you thought me in danger of possession or of using blood magic, you would not hesitate to kill me.”

The second one raised an eyebrow. “Neither would your Wardens.”

“There might be a slight hesitation,” said Malcolm. “She has her bad days, like anyone does. We’d have to be sure it wasn’t that. I mean, seriously, _ogre_. You have no idea.”

The Seekers seemed startled at his humor, as if they hadn’t expected a prince to joke as Malcolm did.

Líadan punched Malcolm in the arm for his efforts, lacing it with lightning to get her point across.

Oscar, the bodyguard Alistair had assigned to her ages ago, snorted. He reminded Líadan a lot of Kennard, which was probably why he’d been given the assignment, and why she could actually stand him. She’d even been pleased to discover he’d managed to survive the battle in the palace.

“That,” Malcolm said to the now alarmed Seekers as he rubbed his arm, “was the ogre. Not whatever abomination you might be thinking. Now you know the difference, so there you go. You’re welcome.”

Líadan wasn’t sure if she loved him or hated him. She was fairly certain that she hated the Seekers nearly as much as the templars. For they were the ones who held ultimate responsibility for the head injury Malcolm incurred when Renaud’s supposed cabal of templars infiltrated the palace and tried to take Cáel. Her anger had only grown once she’d found out the entire story, that Malcolm hadn’t been allowed to waken naturally, and that because of that, Wynne wasn’t entirely certain if he would continue to be in good health in the long term. She had explained that the odds were high that he would, but with his history of being hit in the head, there was a small chance of damage that wouldn’t show for some years yet. Creators willing, he would be fine, and most likely would be. But it still stood that the Seekers and the templars were the ones who had put him in that danger.

Put Malcolm in danger, taken away Cáel by forcing him into hiding, and it physically _hurt_ to have him gone. There was a neverending ache in her chest at not seeing him, at knowing that he wasn’t anywhere in the compound or palace, that she couldn’t just go find him and Nuala when the feeling of missing him struck. She knew Malcolm felt the same, even though he hadn’t mentioned it since the first time, because occasionally he’d get a slightly panicked look around his eyes, as if he’d thought of something he’d lost, and wasn’t allowed to retrieve it.

It galled her at how almost normal the days afterward felt. The Seekers seemed to fade into the background as much as their kind could. Even the guards that followed them everywhere aside from in the Warden compound managed to remain largely unnoticed. When Líadan didn’t turn into an abomination, and Malcolm did nothing horrific one would assume a blood thrall would do, their Seeker guards were reassigned—or so they assumed, since they stopped following them. Apparently, though she never specifically told them, Seeker Cassandra had deemed them not to be the threat Renaud had told her they were. It was that, or the guards were still tailing them, and were so incredibly adept at hiding in the shadows that no one could see them. Líadan wasn’t putting aside that possibility. However, she did have to grudgingly admit at the seeming show of honest and forthrightness the Seekers had put on after the mishap at the palace.

Cassandra met often with Alistair and Anora, and gossip was passed along that she was questioning noble after noble. From Líadan’s inside information, namely Alistair himself, she knew Cassandra shared—again, supposedly—the information she gleaned from her interrogations of the Bannorn. Anora suspected that the Seekers suspected a traitor in the nobility, but the Queen hadn’t a clue why the Seekers would even care if there was. When Líadan had relayed the information to Thierry, he’d shrugged and said that no one really knew why the Seekers cared to find out whatever it was they were searching. All you knew was that you needed to come up with what they wanted, or suffer their punishment or presence for a very long time. Then again, the Seekers had acknowledged their fault in the casualties resulting from their quasi-attack on the palace, and had begun granting the monarchy access to their knowledge as amends for their trespasses.

Líadan did her best to ignore most of it, not wanting to think about the Seekers any more than she had to. Much of Denerim did the same, with the Revered Mothers recommending patience and caution during this tumultuous time, which was the same message some of the nobility was passing along, as well. Not that Líadan much cared beyond working knowledge. She had Warden and personal matters to attend to, and not some sort of vendetta against the Seekers.

As she often did, Shianni came through the compound to visit, wanting news of her cousin, wanting to check in on her other cousin Rhian, to talk about what she’d spoken of with the Seeker, and to pass along any other news she’d heard. Shianni, the Wardens discovered, heard a _lot_.

“They’re on about Alistair’s mother and Malcolm’s mother,” Shianni said. “Trying to find out if it’s the same woman. But that’s crazy, right? I mean, Alistair’s got his mother’s older daughter taken care of here in the city, and that woman’s mother wasn’t an apostate or mage of the Circle; she was a servant at Redcliffe Castle. Those Seekers, you’d think they’d be good at finding the truth, but they’re going entirely in the wrong direction trying to prove that Malcolm and Alistair have the same mother. I don’t even see why they care so much. Is it the magic in the line? I heard enough from the nobles in the last Landsmeet talking about how at least half the noble lines in Thedas have magic in there somewhere.” She sighed. “Well, hopefully they’ll go in a different direction once they speak with Eamon and he sets them straight about where Alistair’s mother was from. Maker, this is stupid.”

“You won’t get any disagreement from me,” said Líadan.

Shianni drummed her fingers on the table as she continued to mull over all she had to share. “Bann Teagan said the Seekers asked him about all the dragon fighting. Of course, he told them they should ask the people who either fought or saw the dragons since he couldn’t get to the Battle of Highever in time. Teyrn Fergus apparently told the Seekers to sod off when he got his summons demanding he present himself for questioning. They’ll probably end up physically dragging him in like half the nobility.” 

Líadan chuckled. “Alistair is still trying to convince him to cooperate, but Fergus is still mad that they took some of his land.” She’d heard the same rumors herself, about Cassandra or other Seekers asking about the dragons, insinuating that perhaps the Fereldans were or had started to worship the Old Gods, and that was why there had been so many dragon sightings in their country. Then there had come the accusations of the Wardens recruiting and harboring apostates on purpose, because they’d gone from only Líadan making up their mage population to the several they had now. She did know, through the secret messengers Hildur used between the Vigil and the Denerim compound, that Hildur had rejected the Seekers request that she to come to Denerim to clear up those rumors. She’d followed that up with another letter explaining that if the Seekers so much as hinted that they would try to take back any of her mages, they’d have to get through all her Wardens to do so. While the mages under Hildur’s command had been thrilled to hear of their defense, Alistair had let drop that Cassandra had been less than pleased. It had, however, made some of the more resistant new Wardens warm up a bit to the Order.

Then Shianni glanced back at the doors just through the main hall. “And how do you stand being in a city crawling with templars?”

“I don’t know. I try not to think about it, because I’m fairly certain that if I thought about it, I’d end up leaving.” Líadan slumped over onto the table, doing her best to ignore that her rapidly expanding middle now kept her farther away than she normally sat. “I was supposed to be considering going to the Arlathvhen. But with the Seekers and their demands, and Cáel being stuck at the Vigil, my choice was completely taken away. By now, it’s either over or very nearly over, and the Seekers are _still here_.” 

Bethany, who’d been sitting next to Shianni as the elven bann caught them up on the Seeker gossip, said, “I wonder if Merrill would’ve wanted to go to the Arlathvhen. She mentioned it once. Said one of those was the last time she’d seen her parents.”

“She was around four when she came to the clan,” said Líadan. “She only saw her parents once more, after that. In a way, Keeper Marethari was more a mother to her than the woman who gave birth to her.” The pang of sadness for her clanmate struck her again at remembering that Merrill was now an exile, living in the human city of Kirkwall, and entirely without a clan.

“How would you—” Bethany cut herself off before she finished her question. “That’s right, you and Merrill, you’re from the same clan. I remember now. When Anders first came to Kirkwall, before he went into the Deep Roads with the Wardens, he ran into us in Lowtown. He had to find someone to take care of his kitten. I was going to ignore him, because Marian always told me to ignore men like him—”

“Men giving away kittens?” asked Shianni. “Not so sure I’d mind that.”

“No! I mean, maybe. I meant men that seemed to be on a mission, as he was. But Merrill started cooing over the kitten, and I really had no choice but to talk to him. It eventually came out that he was a Fereldan Warden, and Merrill asked after Líadan, and they chatted about Keeper Marethari and the last time you’d visited the Mahariel, when Anders was with you.” Bethany frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with how her explanation had been more jumbled than she liked. “Merrill was very happy that you’d visited them.”

Líadan wondered if Anders had mentioned how she and Marethari had spent most of her visit arguing, and if wasn’t arguing with the Keeper, she’d been arguing with Fenarel. Then there was the fact that she was fairly certain that time was when she and Malcolm had conceived when they weren’t supposed to be _able_ to, and she really didn’t want to talk about the Mahariel anymore, at least not where she was concerned. She did want to know more about how Merrill was doing, and Bethany hadn’t been this open since, well, ever. 

“The Keeper and I argued about Merrill being exiled, actually,” she said out loud. “I disagreed with the decision. Blood magic, as a source of power, isn’t banned among the Dalish. Using others to power your spells _is_ , of course, but not blood magic itself. Those who choose to learn it are allowed to use it on themselves. The clan does pay more attention to them, usually at the mage’s request, to keep watch for possession.”

Bethany didn’t seem convinced, her mouth turning in the same displeased frown that Wynne got at the mention of blood magic. “She did make a deal with a demon.”

“Spirit,” said Líadan. “Humans differentiate between spirits who dwell in the Beyond, but what you might perceive as ‘good‘ or ‘bad‘ both have the potential to be bad. Some are more forthright about it, like rage or desire demons, as you call them, but others appear neutral or even good. Perhaps even the spirits themselves don’t know their own potential to follow a dark path until it’s too late.” She sighed. “It’s disappointing and frightening that Merrill had to learn from a spirit. Most Dalish mages choose not to learn, so it’s become harder for those who would to find someone to teach them. That’s probably why Merrill had to, but I still don’t like how unsafe that path tends to be over learning it from another mage.”

“Do you practice blood magic?” Rhian asked from another table.

“Me? No. Aside from the fact that Keeper Marethari doesn’t practice it herself, and that I would never make a deal with a spirit, what would be the point? It wouldn’t augment my abilities enough to be anywhere near worth the cost. I can see how Merrill’s powers and abilities would become absolutely devastating for defending the clan, but at best, it’d make mine mildly useful instead of entirely useless. So, no. No blood magic for me.”

“That’s certainly good to hear,” said Thierry. At Líadan’s angry look, he held up his hands to fend her off. “I know, I know, I’m a Grey Warden. It isn’t like I’d shout, ‘Maleficar!’ and then try to run you through. Maybe, I might have a couple months ago. But not now. It would make me wary, however. Good to know the extra vigilance won’t be necessary.”

“Wary is warranted,” said Líadan, giving him a disarming smile for his newfound openness. “Not even the Dalish discount the heightened danger from spirits and the potential for possession where blood magic is concerned.” Then she turned her attention back to Bethany. “Merrill has always been an incredibly strong mage, so I don’t really even see why she’d feel she needed the extra power.”

“She talked about a mirror.” Bethany sat forward, picked up a stray bit of parchment someone had left on the table, and began tearing the edges. “Something about putting it back together because it had been shattered. But before she could work on it, she said she had to remove the taint from it, and nothing but blood magic would allow her to do so.”

Líadan stared at Bethany. “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”

“I heard about it often enough, especially whenever we visited the Mahariel. Every time, the Keeper would ask Merrill if she’d decided to leave the mirror alone and return to the clan. And every time, Merrill said no, that she was restoring it to regain the knowledge of their people. The same conversation, every time.”

There was no question in Líadan’s mind that Bethany spoke of the eluvian. _The_ eluvian, the one that had changed her entire life, the one that had killed Tamlen, the one that had forced her from her clan and the only home and family she’d known until then. That eluvian was not a source of knowledge or a way to restore _Elvhenan_ ; it was a way to death of many kinds. Merrill was... she... she _knew_ all those things. She’d seen for herself what the eluvian had done, how its corruption killed, either slowly or quickly. Either way, still dead. 

 _Tamlen, his skin corrupted and dark, shrieking as he attacked with hands transformed into claws, before crossbow bolts appeared in his chest. The tormented corpse of what had once been her friend landing on her, throwing her to the ground, the body’s putrid smell filling her nostrils. The work of_ thateluvian _and simple curiosity._

She stood up, pressing her hands flat on the table to help her stand. She couldn’t remain, not here with these people who had no idea what Merrill’s dabbling with the eluvian truly meant. What it could mean, what it could do, and Líadan wanted to take a ship to Kirkwall as fast as she could to shatter that eluvian all over again so it would not, _could_ not, kill another member of her clan. “Excuse me,” she said to the others who sat at the table with her, and strode from the room as fast as she was able. She was trapped in Denerim, but she had to go somewhere other than were she’d been sitting.

“What did I say?” she heard Bethany ask as Líadan walked away. Too much distance was between them for Líadan to hear the answer, not that anyone in the main hall would have been able to give the right one.

Revas followed her out into the empty yard and snuffled at her in worry when she sat down with her back against the stone wall that blocked the compound from the street. Usually, the yard would be filled with several of their Denerim recruits, but Malcolm and Oghren had brought them over to the palace’s more open training area to work out with the royal guards, and to pit them against Teyrna Cauthrien. Cauthrien had returned to Denerim with nearly the entirety of her standing Gwaren troops, ready to defend her country against the Orlesian Seekers if it came to it. She had still yet to subject herself to questioning from Seeker Cassandra. Odds were low she ever would.

Líadan had seated herself more slowly than she liked, still unhappy that she’d lost a lot of her flexibility and more than a step of her speed. Her archery skills had returned over the weeks, and at least those were back to the form they’d been in when she was just a Dalish hunter. Her ability to heal hadn’t gained any ground, however. 

Not that it mattered. Even if she could heal, there was nothing she could do to prevent Merrill from hurting herself, or possibly even killing herself through the eluvian. Líadan did not like feeling helpless, or _being_ helpless, as she was. She couldn’t just leave to save her former clanmate, as much as she desperately wanted to, and she had no idea if she was sad or angry or what about Merrill’s choice to try to fix the eluvian.

It was broken. Irrevocably, dangerously broken, and would bestow nothing but death, made to look whole or not.

Yet, there was nothing she could do to save Merrill. Nothing.

Revas whined and laid her head on top of the rounded swelling that held Líadan’s growing child. 

“Like that shelf, do you?” Líadan asked the mabari. “Convenient for you, I know. Not so much for me.”

The dog let out a low, affirmative bark.

Líadan relaxed slightly and ran her fingers through the short fur on the top of Revas’ head. “You ever felt like you had to save someone, but there was nothing you could do?”

Another whine from Revas.

“Right, lost your packmate. I know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I miss him, too.”

Revas whined again. _And the pup. Miss the pup._

Líadan laid her cheek on the mabari’s head as her arms went around to hug the dog’s massive neck. “Me, too.”

With Malcolm and Alistair busy with the recruits, and no other Wardens knowing exactly how to approach her, she was left alone until she felt recovered enough. Líadan decided to box away every thought and feeling she had about the eluvian for the time being. She didn’t have enough energy to deal with it, and she didn’t have a way to save Merrill from the danger. Maybe once the Seekers had gone, she would consider going to Kirkwall to destroy the eluvian. Until then, she would not give it any more of her time or attention.

Of course, with no one else clued into her plan, others didn’t cooperate. Bethany sought her out to apologize before the evening meal, leaving Líadan to awkwardly try to reassure her that she hadn’t offended. Just taken by surprise was all, nothing more. Malcolm and Oghren didn’t come back until right before the evening meal, but Malcolm shot her enough curious looks over it to let her know that someone must have told him. She shook her head once at him, informing him that she’d tell him later. She had no intention of actually doing so, deciding on distraction instead, because she was well over discussing it any further. It also meant staying out in the main areas later than usual, socializing with the rest of the Wardens after the recruits had been sent home, because Malcolm wouldn’t bring up what had happened unless they had privacy. The longer they remained in the warm main hall near the cheerful fire and Wardens slowly getting into the good winter ale, the less time they’d have in private, and therefore the less time for meaningful discussions she didn’t want to have.

She hadn’t taken into account Oghren being well into his cups, how chatty it made him, and how random he tended to be in that state. He stumbled past Líadan, forgetting that part of her protruded now, and bumped right into her midsection. “Sorry,” he said, waving his mug in apology, careful enough to keep the ale in it from sloshing out. “Keep forgetting about the incubating nuglet.”

“Not sure I see how you could, considering she’s eye level with you,” said Líadan. “Keep your head there and she could probably kick you.”

“Eh, I’d rather not. Not that I wouldn’t want to be up close and personal with you, but I’d rather not risk it looking like something it isn’t.”

She rolled her eyes.

“What? It’s true. You could forget and take offense, or the blighter could mistake it for something else, and I’d just rather not have to explain to the pike-twirler why his brother has a black eye and bloody nose.” Despite his words, Oghren did reach out and poke Líadan’s stomach with a finger. “You know, with the amount of lyrium in Sundermount, I’d be surprised if this new nuglet didn’t turn out to be one of you sparkly-types.” With that, he began to walk away.

Líadan grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him back. “Wait, what? Oghren, say that again.”

“I don’t think he’s capable,” said Malcolm. “I’m not even sure he knows what he said, honestly.”

Oghren blinked, his eyes focusing more than before, indicating that he wasn’t quite as drunk as he made himself appear. “Which part? The lyrium or the nuglet?”

“There’s lyrium in Sundermount?” asked Líadan.

Oghren nodded. “Aye. More’n they’d mine in a year in the Deep Roads. Made my skin tingle. Lyrium veins had to be richer and purer than any I’d been around in a while.”

“You could have _said_ something while we were there,” said Malcolm. “Seriously, Oghren. It didn’t cross your mind that maybe you should have mentioned it?”

“I thought you knew! You all kept going on about how thin the Veil was and how demons and such from the Fade were walking around on the mountain. Figured you knew the lyrium had a part in it. Sodding Ancestors, I don’t see why it’s so important that it’s got your knickers in a twist.”

Malcolm’s gaze shifted to Líadan, and then pointedly at the evidence of why the information about the excess lyrium _might_ have come in handy.

“The nuglet.” Oghren raised his mug and proceeded to drain the rest of his ale. “Right. I need a drink. ‘Scuse me.”

That was it. Líadan wanted the day over and done with and never to be spoken of again. So she turned and retreated upstairs to the room she shared with Malcolm, the noise of the main hall suddenly too much to bear. She slammed drawers shut a little harder than was necessary as she searched for one of the shifts she wore to bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers, throw them over her head, and put the day forever behind her. 

After she slammed shut another drawer, she heard Malcolm say, “I’ll just assume you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t.”

He finished entering the room, quietly closing the door behind him. “Trying to do so will result in decapitation?”

“Likely.” She pulled a clean shift from another drawer and took off the clothing the tailors had modified more than once. 

When her breastband joined the rest of her clothes, Malcolm asked, “Was there a spell I’m not aware of? A potion?”

Entirely confused, even though usually she could follow his sudden shifts in conversational subjects, she finally fully turned to face him instead of keeping a side profile to him. “What?”

He waved his hands in the vague direction of her chest. “Those. Because those aren’t yours.”

“They’re attached to my body.” He wasn’t seriously going on about this, was he? Of course he was. Of course.

“They weren’t this morning.”

Líadan let go of the grumble of annoyance she’d been resisting, and then pulled the shift over her head. Once it was on and Malcolm had at least stopped gawking, she asked, “Can we please discuss something else? Something that has nothing to do with my changing body, the eluvian, or Merrill?” She assumed that covered all the subjects she particularly wanted to avoid.

“All right.” After he shrugged, he stripped to his smalls and slid under the covers. Then he sat up, a thoughtful look to his eyes, which usually signified a line of questioning she probably either wouldn’t like or wouldn’t follow. “One of the traders at the market mentioned glimpsing more Dalish than he’d ever noticed while traveling between the Frostbacks and Lake Calenhad. Then I remembered you once mentioning an Arlathvhen, and I wondered.” He paused and waited until she made eye contact before asking, “Did you manage to miss the Arlathvhen without ever discussing it again?”

“Maybe.” She stood at the end of the bed, somehow reluctant to climb in. On seeing her hesitation, Revas gave her a hopeful look. “No, no, you stay on the floor. You need a bath and those are fresh linens,” she told the mabari.

Revas grumped before settling for the rug in front of the hearth.

Malcolm traced a pattern on the coverlet with one of his fingers. “You didn’t want to go at all, did you?”

She looked down at her middle, and then back up at him, her eyebrow raised. “Not really, and I doubt you have to use your imagination as to why.”

“I’d believe you, except you didn’t want to go before you knew you’d be like this while the Arlathvhen was going on.” He leaned against the headboard behind him. “Why didn’t you really want to go?”

“And if I don’t tell you?”

“I’d be just as happy talking about the other things you really don’t want to talk about.”

Problem was, she knew he wasn’t bluffing, and would persist until she admitted what direction her thoughts had gone in on finding out about Merrill and the eluvian earlier. She sighed and clambered into the bed, starting to feel the tiredness that was her steadfast follower as of late. “My grandfather.”

“Your grandfather?”

“...is still alive.”

“Really?” Malcolm’s question was posed at a pitch much higher than his normal one.

“And the Keeper of another clan.”

He scrubbed his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “And you never thought to mention this?”

“I’m mentioning it right now.” The idea of Malcolm being afraid of her grandfather was somewhat entertaining, and certainly a nice diversion from her more stressful thoughts.

Malcolm’s limbs were tense, and he looked liable to leap out of the bed at any second. “He’s a strong mage, isn’t he? Yes? Yes. He will set me _on fire_.”

“Not if he doesn’t meet you, which he probably won’t. I haven’t seen him since right after my parents died. We didn’t much speak then, and I don’t foresee seeing or speaking to him anytime soon, if at all. He’d avoided my parents since I was little, and seems to be continuing the habit with me.”

He relaxed a little, appearing far less likely to flee the bed. “Why?”

“He was angry. Is angry, I suppose. My mother wasn’t of my father’s clan; she was a Suriel.  While she didn’t have the Gift herself, with her father being the Keeper of the clan, she was expected to stay with the clan, especially since there was a significant chance any child she had would have the Gift, and provide a potential First for my grandfather. So, when she met and bonded with my father, it didn’t go over well. I’m not sure that he’s forgiven either of them, even now.”

“And you don’t think that if he finds out about me, about us, that he wouldn’t come looking for me?”

“He has his responsibilities as a Keeper. He hasn’t come for me yet, either to scold or take me back to the Dalish or even remind me that I still have one relation by blood alive and presumably well, so I don’t think he’d suddenly begin to care. Besides, how would he even find out? His clan tends to stay far from human settlements, so they rarely hear of human events or tales, especially recent ones.”

Malcolm remained unconvinced. “But did you get your temper from him? Because that would definitely override his sense of responsibility. It’s one thing to pretend not to care because of a long-standing disagreement. It’s another thing to discover that your granddaughter is going to have an elf-blooded child, especially if you got your temper from him. Yeah, I think I’ll go back to wearing armor more often, even when not training here in garrison.”

“Think what you want. I haven’t seen or heard from Emrys since he visited the Mahariel after my mother and father died. Not when I became a Grey Warden, not after I helped end the Blight, and not now. I don’t see that changing.” Had she attended the Arlathvhen, maybe she could see the outcome Malcolm feared. But the only clan that knew of her situation was out finding and destroying eluvians, not attending Arlathvhens, so there wouldn’t be anyone to pass along pertinent information to her grandfather, which meant he would stay out of her life.

She was fine with that, as long as she didn’t think about it too much. Malcolm looked eager to continue the conversation, and she had no wish to dwell on it. So she mumbled a good night, rolled over, and dropped right off to sleep.

In the Beyond, it didn’t take long for the dreaming to start; it never had since Sundermount. Líadan saw a young man approaching, impossibly fair, his amber-colored eyes at first calm, even determined. Once she was able to break away from his gaze, she noticed his ears. They were almost pointed, but not quite _elvhen_. She looked twice, because that was something that never happened. Elf-blooded children did not have traits that strongly identified them as having an elven parent. If they had any elven traits, it was never the ears. And yet, here was a young man in the Beyond who was unmistakably elf-blooded. Was this Cianán, then, already grown? Did time move differently in Arlathan? His eyes were close to Zevran’s color, and perhaps a little of Morrigan’s, as well. The hair would be all Zevran. 

“Cianán?” she asked, feeling more than strange doing so, but feeling compelled to know.

The young man didn’t answer. He looked past her, and then whipped around to look behind him.

Her gaze followed, and then she saw what he did: a spirit that moved along behind him at a lazy, yet constant pace. A spirit of sloth, clearly chasing the young man.

“Cianán?” she called again, more urgently. If it was him, he couldn’t be taken by a demon. Not with the power he would have within him.

He glanced back at Líadan, his light brows drawn together in confusion.

Líadan remembered—Cianán resembled Morrigan, not Zevran. This young man was someone else. 

Then the spirit said, “Dreamer.” Its—his?—voice was languid and calming and wrong.

The young man’s eyes widened in terror. He bolted past Líadan, and a sheer cliff rose behind him, soaring thousands of feet into the Beyond’s sky. It left her with no path of escape and facing a spirit that humans would have named a demon, with nowhere to flee.

The demon plodded ever forward, his eyes having shifted from his first chosen prey onto her. “You will do,” he said. “A weakling mage, but a weak connection to the Beyond is better than none at all. And when I possess you, you will no longer be weak, because I am part of the Beyond.”

Weak. She’d show him _weak_. She summoned lightning without thought, but it had little effect on the demon.

He made a show of brushing off the shocking energy with his desiccated hand, and then chuckled. “So spirited. This will give me energy I have not had in a very long time.”

“No.” This spirit would not have her body. It was hers. She shared it now with her growing child, but it was _hers_. This being of sloth was not invited, nor would he ever be. “Stay away from me.” She couldn’t even imagine what would happen if this demon won and she became an abomination. What would happen to her unborn child? The question had never occurred to her, and it had never come up in all her training with Marethari. Perhaps some things were too awful to even think of in hypotheticals.

A bow appeared in her left hand, and an arrow in her right, with a quiver hanging from a belt slung around her hips. She nocked the arrow and drew it back. “Stay away.”

“Oh! There are two lives in one! What an unexpected treat. I can make this nice for you, you know. You won’t see a thing of what happens after. You’ll be living the perfect life, reveling in complete happiness because the child is not a mage. Is that not what you want? For fate to change its course? I can do that for you. I can create that world.”

“Back off, spirit.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Líadan loosed the arrow and it struck the spirit in the chest, where the heart would have been in an elf. 

The spirit was unaffected.

She kept the cursing inside her head. Of course it wouldn’t have a heart. What was she thinking? She went to nock another arrow, but feared he was getting too close. Her back already pressed against the smooth rock wall behind her.

“Keep trying,” said the spirit. “This is fun.”

“Get away from her,” said another voice, ringing strong and resolute through the Beyond. “Do not disobey me, demon. You will leave her alone, or you will face my wrath.”

The demon slowly spun to peer at the newly appeared spirit. “Wrath, is it? Whatever happened to your sense of justice?”

The new spirit drew a sword and held it in front of him, the tip in the soil, and the spirit’s gauntleted hands resting on top of the pommel. Despite the ease of his posture, his readiness was apparent in the power that projected from him. “Leave.”

Though the new spirit was not as corporeal as the demon, the demon of sloth nevertheless bowed his head and began to back away. “I will do as you say, for now. But you will not always be here to protect my prey, and I will be waiting.”

Líadan’s eyes snapped open to find herself awake and out of the Beyond. She wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or rattled. The weak— _weak? I’ll show you weak_ —light of pre-dawn stretched through the lightly frosted panes of the window. Malcolm slept on beside her, unaware. She slipped out of the bed, the undetectable Dalish hunter— _you will not always be here to protect my prey_ —and went about the necessities she had to do before she could leave the room. The library would be deserted this early. She could retreat and recompose herself within books and the warm accompaniment of her mabari. Malcolm would have provided comfort, but she did not want to stay in bed, and she did not want to wake him, either. 

Dread threatened to overtake her even as she fled from the room. She’d never drawn a spirit before as she slept, not once. Now one was after her, one that knew about her pending child. She had not been prepared for the abject fear that took root in her stomach. Maybe it wasn’t her it was after. Maybe it was the child. Maybe it was from what Oghren had said, that the Gift would be passed along because of the lyrium and could magic manifest from the cradle? She had never heard of it doing so, and could not imagine how a babe could control it.

Because they couldn’t, which was why magic didn’t appear until they had at least mastered _walking_. But with the excess lyrium and Sundermount and the thin Veil, Líadan couldn’t make herself feel any amount of certainty. Perhaps it could happen. Perhaps magic could be apparent and active within a mage from birth. There would be no way to control it, no way to teach control, and every outcome from such a thing would be unbearable, far worse than having her elf-blooded child manifest the Gift normally.

It couldn’t happen, could it?

Morrigan would know, but Morrigan was not there to ask. By the time she found her again, it would be too late.


	49. Chapter 49

  
“Spite ate away all that was good, kind, and loving

till nothing was left but the spite itself, 

coiled ‘round my heart like a great worm.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Meghan**

With the rains having stopped in preparation for the onset of the southern winter, and then winter’s touch having frozen the ground, the perpetually present mud of Ferelden made a retreat. Meghan took great delight in its drying, reveling in the bottom of her cloak for once not being encrusted with mud. It was a small thing to be grateful for, and she was grateful nonetheless, for she hadn’t much else to celebrate. The asylum granted by King Alistair was only a step toward regaining Starkhaven, and she still wasn’t even sure it was a step she wanted. 

What she _wanted_ was her family back, alive and well, and that was a gift that could never be granted by any mortal. 

Since the Divine had departed Ferelden, and the Seekers who came in her wake did not care about her or who she was, Meghan was once more allowed in the house of the Maker and His prophet, Andraste. She attended often with Arlessa Isolde, the babe Rowan left behind in the hands of a capable, dedicated nurse. Meghan wasn’t sure if Isolde’s many trips to the chantry was because of a great faith, or because it was also a good place to keep apprised of the most recent gossip. Of late, gossip had stuck to one of three topics: the presence of the Seekers, or that it had become blatantly obvious the rumors of Prince Malcolm’s Grey Warden mistress being with child were completely true, or the Queen’s recently announced pregnancy.

“Cailan never managed to sire any child, bastard or legitimate,” said one woman in the pew behind where Meghan and Isolde sat. “Meanwhile, those two legitimized bastards of Maric’s seem to have no issues whatsoever with producing either.”

“It’s like with mutts,” said the man next to her. “Something to be said for mixing noble blood with some commoner. You end up with something hardier, better off. Well, aside from the mabari. But then again, they make sure none of those dogs are inbred, unlike much of the esteemed nobility. They should marry and mix with the commoners more often, I say.”

Isolde stiffened at the insult. Meghan felt a bit of indignation herself, but she could not dispute, knowing some of the noble Marcher families that she did, that the man did have a valid point. 

“Yes. Marry and _then_ mix, not the other way around,” said the woman, unaware of the two nobles in front of her listening to her entire conversation. “While our King has done things the right way, the same cannot be said for his younger brother. Someone should step in and set that young man straight. A proper marriage would give him some perspective, as well as prevent any more illegitimate children from him.”

The man snorted. “Only if you let him marry that elf Warden of his. I’ve worked enough guard shifts in the palace to know that any woman of the nobility wouldn’t stand a chance of catching his fancy. Lad’s only got eyes for his mistress, and I’ve not once yet seen them stray for anything more than a quick, meaningless glance.”

“I think it’s romantic,” said the other woman sitting near the first two gossip mongers. “Two heroes of the Blight, finding each other afterward while they escorted the body of their fellow Warden to his place of honored rest at Weisshaupt? Staying by his side as they journeyed across Thedas to find the lover who had abandoned the prince on the eve of the Battle of Denerim? They’ve even remained together despite the discovery of Prince Cáel. I think it’s a wonderful story.”

“That’s what it is,” said the first woman. “A story. A fairytale. The prince needs a solid conversation with reality and what his duties are to his family and Ferelden. While I respect that he must love his mistress, he cannot ignore that one of his duties is to marry, and that another duty is to _not_ sire more illegitimate children.”

“I say he should just marry his mistress,” said the man. “That’d save everyone heaps of trouble. She’s a Grey Warden who fought for Ferelden during the Blight. That should make her worthy enough, you’d think.”

“Not when she’s an elf.”

The second woman sighed. “It’s so sad.”

“He should know better,” said the first. “Romance isn’t for princes, no matter what the stories say.” Then she went on as Meghan had heard many of them go on.

Some of the gossipers, they made the Fereldan prince sound much like her brother Sebastian had been before he’d been sent to the Chantry. Meghan herself hadn’t heard the rumors about her brother until well after he’d already been sent away. To her, it had seemed like she was the only one who had viewed him as something other than a rake. To her, she’d felt like she’d been the only one left behind in Starkhaven who missed her brother. That alone made her view the Fereldan prince, Malcolm, in a warm light, nasty gossipers aside. Yet, most of the stories she’d heard from either favorable or neutral sources painted a far different picture of Malcolm than the ones who made him out to be somewhat of an irresponsible rake. Familiar fondness aside, she had no real opinion about him, considering she’d not yet met him. His brother the King had seemed an intelligent enough man, with enough humor and warmth to soften what had the potential to be a very intimidating presence. As for the younger, whom Arl Eamon seemed so eager to rein in, she had no idea which sets of rumors were true.

Meghan hoped Malcolm wouldn’t turn out to be like her brother. Sebastian’s proclivities had gotten him sent away from his family, and this prince had more family depending on him emotionally than her brother ever had.

The separation had been cruel, and she wasn’t sure to whom it was crueler, Sebastian or the family he left behind in Starkhaven. Yet, Sebastian had never written her back, not once. The brother she had idolized, the brother she’d believed thought her his favorite sibling, had ignored that she’d ever existed. For a long time, she hadn’t believed he could be so insensitive, but perhaps his fate had made him so.

Once, she’d brought it up to her mother, and her words, followed by her outraged father’s, had made the pain even worse. Given the choice, she would have endured that conversation over and over every day to have them alive again. Time spent here in the chantry, she was beginning to feel, was wasted, as much as her breath had been in asking the Chantry for asylum. Her family had been dedicated to the Chantry and the Maker, so much that they sent one child of each generation to serve as priest, sister, or brother. Before Sebastian’s behavior had gotten out of hand, it had yet to be determined whether it would’ve been him or her middle brother. While it was traditionally the youngest who was sent, as the only daughter, Meghan had been out of the question. That left Sebastian as the youngest brother of three, but their middle brother had expressed interest in joining the Chantry himself, so the issue had been left to rest until Sebastian had forced it.

Yet, even with all her family’s piety, when she had gone to the Chantry in a time of need, she had been rejected. Pushed aside first by Grand Cleric Francesca, then Grand Cleric Philippa, and finally the Divine herself. Had she not much else to do and Isolde not invited her along each day, Meghan would have entirely stopped her visits to the chantry. The Maker’s mortal representatives had abandoned her as much as the Maker had turned His back on His creations.

Sitting in the chantry itself was bad enough, Meghan decided, but listening to these people, day after day, in the chantry and the market and the taverns, even the servants and guards in the arl’s estate when they thought none of the family listening, piled onto her memories. Not wanting to hear anything more that would remind her of the brother she once had, Meghan stood from her seat next to Isolde and headed for one of the smaller alcoves to the side. Along with the quiet, they offered some privacy, with room for just two or three people to pray at the small shrines.

Only instead of praying, she glared at the small statue of Andraste and the candles surrounding it.

At least she could no longer hear the gossipers.

“Has Andraste offended you so that she has earned your scathing glare?” a gentle voice with an Orlesian lilt asked from behind her. 

“Perhaps,” said Meghan, and then sat up straight in surprise at her honesty.

Air shifted within the alcove as the intruder sat on the bench beside Meghan. The woman’s Chantry robes rustled as she rearranged them for sitting properly. “If you would like to talk, I will listen. It would not do to allow Andraste’s offenses to go unanswered.”

The statement was said so innocently that Meghan almost smiled. She missed having someone to speak with, someone whom she could trust with complete honesty. In Starkhaven, she’d had her lady-in-waiting or the woman who’d been her nurse when she was a child. _She_ had never failed to give her uncensored opinion on whatever troubled Meghan. Here, however, she had no one, due to how guarded she had become out of necessity. Denerim had turned out to be just as politically dangerous as Starkhaven, the difference being fewer Antivan crows. 

Her desire to talk, truly talk, nearly compelled her to do just that, but this was the chantry, and she could not afford to forget that. “It would not be safe here for me to speak. The Chantry has made it quite clear to me. But I thank you for your offered kindness, Sister.” After Meghan spoke, she turned to look at the sister sitting next to her.

If she’d been offended, her face, which was rather lovely, did not show it. If anything, she seemed confused, her red brows drawn together and her mouth venturing on a frown. “The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it.”

“Not so. Would that it were.” Meghan’s smile was wry, but it fell as she turned her attention back to Andraste, the statue’s features blurring with unexpected tears.

A still quiet stretched between them, long enough that Meghan brought her tears under control. Then the sister said, “The Maker made the world beautiful, but He also made it dangerous. There is no way for me to prove I am no danger to you—no matter what transgressions the Chantry has made against you, Meghan Vael—but I assure you I am not. I understand your reticence, and do not hold it against you. Remember, your family was worthy enough to be brought to the Maker’s side, to experience His peace. Should you ever feel safe enough to talk, ask for Sister Nightingale.” The woman stood up without sound, and then nodded at Meghan. “Maker watch over you.”

Meghan watched her go, shaken that a stranger knew her full name—a stranger she’d not seen during any of her previous visits, of which there had been many. Then she hustled out of the alcove as quickly as she could without drawing undue attention. 

Arlessa Isolde waited for her in the aisle, a frown sullying her features. “Who was that?” 

“Who was who?”

“That woman you were speaking to.”

Meghan blinked, not having realized how much attention Isolde had given to her wanderings. “Oh, that was Sister Nightingale. She seemed nice.”

The frown had yet to leave Isolde’s face. “She seemed familiar, somehow.”

With the lay sisters all wearing the same robes, Meghan thought they all bore a great deal of resemblance. “Well, Chantry sisters and priests often have the same look about them.”

Isolde let out a small sigh, and with it went the frown. “I suppose you are right.” She motioned toward the doors. “Come, I’ve much to relay to my husband.”

To Meghan, there wasn’t much new information Isolde could really tell Eamon. They had heard the same rumors and gossip each day they’d visited the chantry, each day they strolled through the central market, or if they happened to go to a tavern. Meghan had gone once and heard a lovely performance from a bard from South Reach, as well as everything she’d heard before from the crowd. Eamon’s obsession with gossip was becoming slightly unnerving, and Isolde’s close observation of her had started to become uncomfortable. If Meghan had had a choice, she would have moved to different lodgings. However, she’d yet to figure out a way in which to make coin that wasn’t scandalous, and she certainly couldn’t hire out as a mercenary when she couldn’t yet hold a bow. Even a simple crossbow gave her problems.

When they arrived at the estate, the arl had yet to return. It wasn’t until the evening’s quiet, informal supper did the subject of that morning’s chantry visit come up. 

“What have you heard?” Eamon asked Isolde. “Has there been any change?”

Meghan could understand why Eamon would care, but she could not, for the life of her, figure out why Eamon cared _so much_.

“No change, husband,” said Isolde. “Among the commoners, most think it romantic. Others think it inappropriate, and some simply do not care. The nobility have been quieter on the subject, aside from those who have daughters or nieces of marriageable age. They, of course, think it highly inappropriate.”

Eamon tore his chunk of bread in half. “As do I.” The bite he took of his bread was vicious, and neither Isolde nor Meghan chose to speak up as he chewed. Eamon swallowed, tapped the hunk of bread he still held on the table, and then dropped it before turning to Meghan. “Would you be willing to meet with Malcolm?”

“You speak of the prince, I assume?” Eamon’s lack of courtesy shown toward the King and his brother rankled at Meghan every time Eamon neglected to grant them the courtesy. Even the disgruntled people of Starkhaven, when speaking of Sebastian, still used his title. She couldn’t afford to openly confront Eamon about his habit, being his guest, but she could employ gentle reminders lacking in a scolding tone.

“Yes,” said Eamon, missing her subtlety. “I will be honest with you—I would like to see a match between the two of you, if it can be arranged.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands together over his chest. “If it could be done, it would be your best option for safety. Not only would you have Ferelden’s promise of keeping you safe, but as a member of their royal family, they would have to guarantee it in a far more direct way.” He lifted a hand to forestall the start of her objections. “I realize that you may have a different opinion when it comes to proper protection given to a royal family in their residence, but Ferelden is different, especially since the beginning of the Blight. Malcolm’s entire foster family, save his elder foster brother, now the current teyrn of Highever, was killed due to the betrayal of a family friend. As such, security is much more rigorous there and certainly at the palace and the Grey Warden compound. Even with the attacks from the Seekers, the Warden compound itself was never breeched. Were you to marry Malcolm, I believe that is where you would reside. Not only protected by the Royal Guard, but also protected by Grey Wardens. I assure you, no better protection is available anywhere on Thedas.”

Meghan couldn’t very well disagree with that fact—the Grey Wardens were the fiercest fighters on Thedas, and their strongholds in every country nigh impenetrable. However, she did not think that should she be matched with Malcolm, that she would live in the Warden compound. She wasn’t stupid; she knew his mistress already lived there with him, along with the other Grey Wardens assigned to Denerim. It would certainly not be possible for any wife of Malcolm’s to live in the same home as his mistress.

The issue of Highever she ignored entirely, deciding it was in bad taste for Eamon to have brought it up. She knew it was less about the protection provided at the palace and more about Eamon attempting to have her identify with Malcolm. The similarities between the deaths of their respective families in their own homes were evident enough without needing to draw attention to it. Eamon might as well have said, “He lost his entire family, just like you!” because that’s exactly the message she got, which she knew quite well he intended. 

“And you would not be waiting through a long betrothal, either,” Eamon continued saying when Meghan did not reply during his pause. “With the birth of his second bastard child growing closer each day, the need for haste in marrying him off increases. Alistair and Queen Anora must realize this, as well, and will probably be eager to rush a match.”

After what she’d overheard before her meeting with the King and Queen, she doubted it. The two of them seemed to rather like Malcolm’s mistress, and she doubted they would be eager to force what would assuredly cause a rift. Meghan wasn’t terribly eager to do so, either. She had always expected to marry for politics, but had never wanted a marriage that allowed for mistresses. From what she’d heard, she wasn’t sure if Malcolm would even agree to an alliance that would essentially force him to abandon the soon to be mother of his second child. Nor did Meghan particularly relish the idea of breaking up a family, even unblessed by the Chantry as it was. The children were innocent in the circumstances of their births.

Yet, none of those thoughts negated the fact that Eamon did have some good points. Most of all, she was his guest. She had to at least entertain the idea or risk losing her shelter. “I would like to have a chance to speak with him,” she said, “before I decide either way.”

Eamon nodded. “That is fair.” He rubbed at his short beard and briefly looked away as a flicker of remorse passed through his eyes. “Despite what I’ve said about the boy, he does have some virtues. I know most of what you’ve heard me say about him hasn’t portrayed him in the best light, and perhaps that’s what’s made you hesitant.” 

If Eamon thought _that_ was what made her hesitate, Meghan wondered if the arl had only just remembered that the prince had good attributes over his indiscretions, since those had seemed to be the only things Eamon saw in him. Could he even come up with anything complimentary? “Somewhat,” she said to Eamon. “From what you’ve said of him, I had wondered if there was anything redeeming about him.”

“He is not a bad man. He has a temper, yes, like any other human being, but he’s never shown that he would harm anyone undeserving with it. He is not a dullard; the Couslands were not remiss with his education. His ability to lead has certainly come a long way from what it was during the Blight. The fine job he’s done with the Wardens here in Denerim honestly took me by surprise. He’s also very much a Theirin. By this, I mean that when he believes something unjust, he will do his level best to see that it’s remedied, and will not be swayed from that course.” Eamon exchanged a sympathetic look with Isolde, one that set Meghan to wondering what it was about. Then Eamon returned his attention to her. “That determination is sometimes to his detriment, but more often than not, as it has been with his ancestors, it has proven to be a strength. If you can bring yourself to look past his indiscretions, he has the makings of a fine young man.” Eamon stood, pressing his hands on the table to help himself up. “I will arranged a luncheon within the next few days, if that is acceptable to you, Lady Vael.”

Against her better judgement, yet knowing she had no other choice than to appear to be considering Eamon’s idea, Meghan nodded. “That would be fine, Arl Eamon.”

To Meghan’s surprise, the arl managed to arrange the meeting for the next day—far sooner than she had assumed was possible. If the prince had agreed that quickly, it had to be either because he wanted the match, or because he wanted its possibility to be put out of the question as soon as was able. Her inclination was to believe it the latter, but there was a chance the prince had been convinced otherwise. She would have to determine which through their conversation, if she could manage it.

A servant had led her to the arl’s private dining room, even though she’d dined there enough times that she could find it on her own. So, either Eamon thought she was not sincere and would somehow arrange to miss the meeting, or he was being more formal than a luncheon meeting indicated. 

The arl waited for her in the dining room, standing at the head of a table set for only two. Meghan barely refrained from flinching. This could be very awkward without any sort of buffer. Then again, there was a strong chance they could be frank and honest without a chaperone present, so long as the lack of chaperone did not prove a scandal in of itself, which could be Eamon’s intention. 

Maker, this was turning out to be as fraught as navigating Starkhaven’s court. 

“Lady Vael,” Eamon said with a slight bow. “Malcolm should be along shortly.”

She nodded in return. “I look forward to meeting him.” That, at least, was honest. She did look forward to conversing with the prince, though not quite under the current circumstances.

Before Eamon could continue the conversation, the seneschal knocked and announced the prince’s arrival, and then opened the door for him to walk through.

The young man who entered was dressed not as any of her brothers would have been in a similar situation. Instead of finery, he wore an arming jacket with the Grey Warden sigil. Considering this was Ferelden, Meghan suppose she should have been grateful he didn’t wear armor. He was well-proportioned, and the breadth of his shoulders reminded her of the strength she’d seen in Starkhaven’s archers. After seeing King Alistair and now his younger brother, rumors she’d heard even up in Starkhaven seemed proven true enough: the Theirin line tended to produce exceedingly acceptable looking men and women.

Eamon cleared his throat and extended a hand toward the prince once he took a few more steps into the room. “Lady Vael, this is Prince Malcolm Theirin.” 

Malcolm nodded and gave her a hesitant, yet somehow open, friendly smile, revealing teeth that were straight and clean. 

The arl’s hand moved to indicate Meghan. “Malcolm, this is Lady Meghan Vael of Starkhaven, formerly a princess, before her family was displaced.”

At those words, Malcolm’s polite smile faded, and he raised a brow at Eamon, not quite managing to hide his distaste for the remark. Meghan had to agree. It was poor form to mention the deaths of her family, especially by describing their murders as displacement. If Malcolm reacted enough to doubt the arl’s comment, he must have heard something of her situation from his brother.

If Eamon took note of the questioning eyebrow, he did not acknowledge it. “Now, if you would excuse me, I will leave you to your luncheon. Should you have need of anything, servants will be nearby.” Another slight bow, and then Eamon left the room, closing the door behind him.

Malcolm’s eyes were keen as they warily glanced around the room like he were searching for some sort of plot to leap out, not that Meghan could blame him. Given what she’d seen so far, were the situation different, she would not object to the match based on her initial impression. Yet, since she knew quite well about his mistress, she found herself unable to nudge her subconscious into even considering it. Why did it bother her so? It was common enough in the nobility, somewhat in the Free Marches and practically the norm in Antiva, for a marriage to hold no love and merely exist for the alliance of noble houses and the production of heirs. Mistresses were often kept, sometimes with the approval of the wife once there were legitimate heirs. Often enough, sharing no love for her husband, the wife would be relieved to no longer have the pressure of providing companionship. Even the wife would take an outside lover, if she were the regnant noble, her husband having done his duty in aiding the continuation of the line.

Were she to agree to this alliance, it could be much the same. Part of it would not be objectionable. She did not see any cruelty lurking behind Malcolm’s eyes. Therefore, she did not think he would treat her poorly, even though she would be taking the place of another woman. However, his heart, attention, and beloved children would always belong to another, and she would be an outsider.

She did not want that. Perhaps, once, when her family was alive in Starkhaven, she might have agreed to such a thing, for she would still have her own family that would always welcome her.

No, that wasn’t it. It was her parents and their example that barred her from a loveless arrangement. Her parents, though their marriage had been arranged, had grown to love one another. With them gone, she dearly wanted what they had, and the realization took her by surprise. Yet, once she knew it was what she wanted, she found she could not let the idea go.

Even still, it remained that she had to convincingly go through the motions of making an attempt at an alliance, or risk finding herself, once again, on the streets of Denerim.

Malcolm’s wary look had finally settled on the closed door. “I think this is his idea of matchmaking. I really think it is,” he said, not quite loud enough to be directed at her.

She still offered him an amused glance. “I believe you’re right.”

He shook his head despite his wry smile. “Seriously, he’s married to an Orlesian woman. You’d think he would’ve at least consulted her. I believe Isolde would be decent at romance.” He gestured around the room. “This awkward setup? I think my brother could do better, and that’s saying something.” Anything further he might have said was interrupted by servants bustling in to set out the meal. Malcolm’s eyes lit up on seeing the food. “I won’t, however, turn down the offer of food. Thierry spent an hour beating me up in the sparring ring earlier and I’m famished.” He waited to sit until she’d taken her seat, evidence of his manners. 

As they ate and somewhat awkwardly chatted, she discovered that Malcolm was as intelligent as Eamon had suggested, though he tended toward speaking of the Wardens rather than much else. Each time she mentioned the governance of Ferelden under either of his brothers, he changed the subject. She didn’t dare bring up Prince Cáel nor Ferelden’s current troubles with the Chantry, Seekers included. Nor did she want to speak of her own city of origin or her family, which left them with not a great many things to talk about.

When the meal had been eaten, Malcolm drummed his fingers on the table and did another assessment of the room before saying, “This is stupid.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Not you. I think you’re rather smart, actually. But this scheme of Eamon’s—unless this was your idea?”

“Maker, no. Finding a husband really isn’t my priority right now.”

He grinned, a spark of it touching his eyes, and she could see that had this been another time, she could have easily agreed to a betrothal with him. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ve already got a wife and she’d be pretty pissed if I tried to get another.”

“You...” She smiled, truly touched by the situation. “A clandestine marriage? That’s so romantic. Is it the Warden you fell in love with after the Witch of the Wilds left you before the Battle of Denerim?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Wynne was right. I’ll be damned.”

She became uneasy in her confusion. Had she been completely wrong about the who? “I thought Wynne was the elderly court mage?”

“She is.” He gave her an equally confused look before it sank in. “Oh! No, no, I didn’t marry _her_. Maker, she’s old enough to be my grandmother, and treats me like a grandchild, too. Not her. Líadan. Dalish bonding.”

“Yes! The Dalish Warden.” She clapped her hands together. “You two have quite the story passing through the taverns and courts by way of the bards.”

He looked at her in askance. “Stories?”

“Lovely ones.”

A blush instantly formed on his cheeks and Meghan decided she rather liked his blush. Yet, if she made any sort of alliance with this man, it would be of friendship rather than anything else. He seemed the honest sort who believed in such things.

“Thank you, I think,” he said, and then tilted his head to the side. “Does this mean you think this idea is stupid, as well?”

“I don’t think ‘stupid’ was what came to mind, but I do share the same sentiment, yes.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Glad we’re on the same page.” Malcolm rose from his chair, and Meghan did likewise. He offered her his elbow. “I think it’s about time I took my leave from the good arl. I think Thierry wanted to beat up on me some more this afternoon. If I get back to the compound quick enough, I might be able to convince Wynne to heal my bruises before I get more.”

“You let your other Wardens win often?”

“What? Oh, no. The ones who win earn it, mostly because they’re better than I am, like Thierry or Alistair. Oghren, too, but mostly because he’s a berserker and they’re scary. Or he’s scary when he’s fighting. Something like that. But, if you ever truly want to see a force on the battlefield, you should watch Teyrna Cauthrien. Holy Maker, she’s a one-woman army. Last time I sparred with her, she knocked me around so bad that Wynne forbid me from sparring with her ever again.” He shuddered. “Not that I was so inclined. I know when I’m outmatched. Well, usually. Some would say I don’t realize it until afterwards, but still.”

“Out of curiosity, do you intend to inform the arl about...”

“It’s what I’m contemplating right now. There’s pros and cons—mostly pros, at this point—and I’m honestly sick of hiding it, especially after all that’s happened with the Seekers. Now that he’s pulled you into this mess, which indicates to me that he won’t be giving up on this matchmaking thing, I’m leaning towards telling him. Maybe I’ll just do it now and get it over with.”

Meghan raised a brow and cast a quick look over at him. “Should you not inform your brother first? Perhaps forewarn Warden Líadan?”

He pulled a face. “Probably. Thing is, he’ll probably also provide me with a perfect opening when we go tell him that we aren’t going to agree to a betrothal. Good thing they’re both forgiving. Mostly.” He grinned down at her. “Don’t worry. If anyone gets mad, it’ll be at me, and not you.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, ser.” She consciously chose the Fereldan honorific instead of the Marcher one. After all, she was in Ferelden, now.

His smile continued to be genuine and friendly as they talked while walking to Arl Eamon’s study. She still grasped the crook of his elbow when they were admitted to Eamon’s sanctum, which brought Eamon to his feet behind his desk. 

The arl did nothing to hide his pleasure at the discovery. “I see the two of you have gotten on well enough thus far,” he said, and then motioned for them to sit. Meghan did so, but Malcolm remained standing in front of one of the chairs. Eamon frowned a little, but did not allow Malcolm’s action to displace his newly found pleasure. “Now, what do you think of arrangements for a betrothal?”

“As pleasant company as Lady Vael is,” Malcolm said mildly, “I don’t think it would be wise for her to become my betrothed. You see, Eamon, I have a wife.”

“You...” Eamon stared.

“I have a wife,” Malcolm said again, but more slowly. “Continuing this would be a pointless waste of everyone’s time.”

“You didn’t.” As the satisfaction had waned on Eamon’s face, his cheeks blanched despite the warmth of the fire in the room’s small hearth. “In secret, with that—of course you did.” He began to pace in the small area behind his desk, his hands making harsh cutting movements as he talked. “Of course, because why not? It isn’t like you have a duty to your line, an obligation which you chose to ignore.”

Meghan thought that, even for a former chancellor, Eamon was overstepping his bounds. To her surprise, the Fereldan prince remained calm, though firm, even with the provocation.

“Maybe you should recall that the Queen is expecting?” he asked the arl. “And that I have a legitimate son who has a place in the line of succession?”

Eamon spun to face him and crossed his arms over his chest. “What about your duty to ensure there are no more Theirin bastards? What about the bastard your wh—”

“Wife, Eamon.” Gone was the mildness from before. “Recall that you’re speaking about my wife, and what will be my legitimate child. Watch what you say.”

 _There_ was the rise of temper Meghan had expected to see earlier. Not that she or anyone else could fault him for it.

“Was it a Chantry marriage?” asked Eamon.

“You know as well as I do it wouldn’t have been allowed by the Divine.”

Eamon nodded. “Then it isn’t valid. The child will yet be a bastard, and you are still unwed in the eyes of the Chantry.”

“You act as if theirs are the only eyes that matter.”

Meghan well knew that when it came to the ruling houses in Thedas, it truly was only the Chantry’s eyes that mattered. It seemed the young prince had yet to learn that lesson. She hoped he would not need to learn it the hard way, though he looked to be heading in that unfortunate direction. “Because they are,” she said softly, hoping that if the confirmation came from her, it wouldn’t be quite as bad.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked quickly over to her to acknowledge her comment, and she couldn’t see any rancor in them. 

Eamon had resumed his pacing. “They’ll have to be sent away, for they must be forgotten.”

The arl’s myopic take on the situation surprised Meghan. The mistress in question wasn’t some unknown washerwoman—she was a very well-known hero of the Fifth Blight. While Eamon seemed to have forgotten that fact, Meghan knew Fereldans and Thedas would not. Warden Líadan, like the other heroes of the Blight, were not people who could fade into obscurity. Eamon seemed blind to Líadan’s true status, seeing only an elf, and a threat of a strength that baffled Meghan. Malcolm had a legitimate heir who did not have elven blood. Beyond that, the Queen was expecting the heir-apparent. Ferelden’s affairs were more secure than they’d been before the Blight. While an elven wife—though one of the Warden’s status was new and untried—would be a minor scandal, Meghan didn’t think the impact would amount to much more. It certainly wouldn’t be whatever doom Eamon seemed to foresee.

He had yet to stop. “There’s still time, especially if we marry you off. A royal wedding will distract the populace enough to sweep these little problems under the rug. If they ask afterward, you can just say she left you to return to the Dalish.” Eamon’s determined eyes fell on Meghan. “You will agree to this, of course? Being from a royal family yourself, you understand the necessity.”

It was only the scarcely masked panic behind the arl’s expression that kept Meghan from speaking harshly. “Please leave me out of this, Arl Eamon,” she said as neutrally as she could. “While I understand the need for political marriage amongst the nobility of Thedas, you’re more than a little too late in this case, I believe. In the Free Marches, at least, Dalish bondings are recognized as valid marriages. The decree came from the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, of all people. So, no, I will certainly not agree to wedding a married man, and I will certainly not play a part in the separation of a family. I know all too well how that feels. While I’m grateful for your help—”

“I doubt that very much, considering your lack of cooperation.” Eamon huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose before addressing Malcolm. “I trust you realize that I must bring this matter to the King’s attention? Immediately, if possible. A member of the royal house marrying without the reigning monarch’s permission is grounds for treason, in some cases.”

Malcolm shrugged, his temper having visibly faded. “Go ahead.”

“If you think that your brother will go easy on you, young man, think again. His hands will be tied, and the matter brought to the Landsmeet at Wintersend. They won’t take well to the news that one of their royal family married an elf without such much as a by your leave.”

Malcolm met Eamon’s steady gaze. “Do what you feel you must, as we all do.”

“I shall.” Eamon turned to Meghan. “It would do you well to find yourself new accommodations in the meantime, Lady Vael. You have overstayed your welcome in my household.” Then he walked out, his fists clenched stiffly at his sides.

When the door closed, Malcolm dropped into a chair and exhaled a long breath. “That was fun,” he said before giving Meghan an apologetic look. “Sorry you ended up in the middle of that.”

Meghan regarded him thoughtfully. “Do you love her?”

“Who?”

“Your wife.”

Some of the frustration in his eyes shifted into warmth as his thoughts must have turned to the woman in question. “I wouldn’t go through all this trouble if I didn’t. Way less stress if you just do what Eamon says, but his ideas have sucked lately.”

“I believe I would have put it as ‘less than ideal,’ but I agree.” She clapped her hands on her lap before standing. “Now, if you would excuse me, I must go pack my meager possessions and take up a room elsewhere.” She wasn’t sure where that would be, but it wouldn’t be here.

“Just go to the palace,” said Malcolm. “I’ll speak with Warrick and have rooms prepared for you. You still require asylum, it’s largely my fault that you got kicked out of your current place, and I have to do something in return for you for your ability to see reason.”

“I... thank you, Your Highness.”

He gave her another one of his grins. “Malcolm. I think we’re at least on a first name basis after that little confrontation.”

She nodded, seeing more of what Fereldans must see in him beyond his well composed Theirin features. “Meghan.” She headed for the door, and then stopped before she’d taken three steps. “Arl Eamon is right, you know, for all his bluster. The repercussions for your clandestine marriage—”

His grin grew wider. “What Eamon doesn’t know is that my brother gave me permission ages ago, as did Anora. It was practically a command. I know he would’ve preferred a Chantry marriage he could’ve been witness to, but sometimes we have to take what we can get.”

“What about your Landsmeet?” While she couldn’t imagine the Starkhaven nobility allowing one of their royal family, or probably even one of the other nobles, taking an elven wife, Ferelden had the potential to be different. Elsewhere, it just wasn’t done, but there had yet to be an elf married into the nobility who possessed the status that Warden Líadan did, especially in Ferelden. Rules, Meghan knew, were often different for heroes—champions, to use the Marcher term. With the heir situation already solved, the solution could be as easy as denying the forthcoming child the ability to inherit royal status, and to not grant Líadan royal status, either. Perhaps a courtesy title, given she was bonded to a prince. With Denerim’s elves already possessing of an elven bann, an elf counted among the nobility was not without precedent. Done the right way, coupled with the nobility being in a giving mood, there was the possibility of it working out. Maybe.

Malcolm’s smile dropped away. “I’m not sure. Due to her being one of the Heroes of the Blight, they might accept it, given an assortment of restrictions and provisions. It’s hard to tell. They’re a loud, unpredictable, independent, and stubborn lot.”

“One might say the same is true of all your countrymen.”

“I see our reputation in the Free Marches hasn’t suffered.” He rose from his seat. “I’ll go see Steward Warrick, find Líadan and warn her that Eamon knows, and _then_ try to speak with my brother before Eamon does. Alistair might agree with the marriage, but I don’t think he’ll take kindly to hearing it from Eamon first.”

“Won’t take kindly?”

“Yelling. He’ll yell. You should hear him; he’s pretty good at it.”

She’d heard quite enough of nobility yelling. “I believe I will have to turn down such a lovely offer.”

“I hear from a good source that you’ll be missing out.”

“I’ll just have to find consolation elsewhere.”

“You could dry your tears in the silks and brocade of the palace’s provided bedding, I suppose.” His eyes widened when he realized what his words sounded like. “That came out wrong. Obviously. Whatever it sounded like, it was entirely not what I meant. I mean, I like you, but not like that.” He scrubbed a hand over his face in despair. “Maker, I sound like _Oghren_.” Then he dropped his hand and cautiously looked over at her. “What I should say is, despite my atrocious manners, inability to express myself properly, and our horrible incompatibility when it comes to marriage, would you like to be friends?”

His sudden transition from confident prince to awkward young man gave her enough cause to genuinely smile for the first time since she’d arrived in Denerim. “I believe we could be friends, yes. I’d like that.”

“Excellent.” He nodded. “All right, I’ve got to get to the palace before Eamon manages to get hold of my brother. You pack up and I’ll let Warrick know on my way in that you’re expected.” He waited for the briefest of moments for her acknowledgement, and then dashed out the door. 

Meghan went to her room to pack, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. She hadn’t realized how oppressive the arl of Denerim’s estate had been until she’d found a way to escape. Perhaps Ferelden would not be as bad as she had previously thought.


	50. Chapter 50

  
“And in my darkest hour, I turned from Her and vowed that I would destroy Her.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Alistair**

****Alistair did his best not to be upset or angry. Thus far, he’d failed miserably at it, but he really was doing his best. He’d run the approaching-tolerable- _maybe_ Seeker Cassandra out of his study in order to let Eamon have whatever highly urgent audience he’d requested. That alone made him realize exactly how much he disliked the Seekers, considering he’d freely chosen to see Eamon in one of his ‘must speak with you urgently’ moments, which never tended to be fun. Alistair had discovered, of late, that he got along with Eamon much better when Eamon remained in Redcliffe, visiting only occasionally, and only when he did not have anything urgent to speak of. Of course, that rarely happened, and so their strained relationship remained strained. He truly wished he could repair it, that he could make it not be so tense between them, but happenstance always seemed to thwart his best intentions.

However, this time, it hadn’t quite been Eamon who’d upset him. Sure, the news Eamon had brought had upset him, but Eamon hadn’t _done_ the thing that upset him.

Honestly, would it have killed Malcolm to have invited him to the bonding? Or at least told him? He immediately understood why—plausible deniability. However, he was sure that if they’d worked together, they could’ve figured something out so he would’ve been able to witness his only brother’s wedding. But no. 

Alistair would bet Ferelden’s entire treasury that Fergus knew. That upset him even more, but he couldn’t rightly name why. And now what really got to him was Eamon’s insufferably pleased expression, because Alistair knew his own irritation plainly showed on his face. Gritting one’s teeth to keep from shouting tended to do that.

“So you see what you will have to do, Your Majesty,” Eamon said, continuing straight into the instruction phase that tended to follow his urgent talks.

Alistair frowned. “No, not really. I mean, I might need to go pound his face in, but I’m not sure what else needs to be done. Maybe arrange something official with the Chantry, if that’s possible. Anora might be the best person to run that by, I think.” He stopped with his plans when he noticed Eamon slowly shaking his head, which caused no small amount of dread to take root in Alistair’s stomach. “What?”

“It is considered a punishable crime, perhaps even treason if it subverts the line of succession, for a member of the royal family to enter a marriage of any kind without permission of the reigning monarch. The provision even includes marriages considered invalid in the eyes of the Chantry.”

So that was why Eamon was so delighted. Awesome. Luckily, even though Malcolm had neglected to _tell him_ , Alistair had at least given permission in one way or another by telling his brother to propose. “Well, no need to worry about prancing our way around that pitfall,” he said. “I did give him permission. With witnesses, no less.”

“Royal permission has to formally be given in front of the Landsmeet after the intent for betrothal is declared. I believe I would remember such an occurrence, as I doubt it would pass unremarked by the Landsmeet.”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Your brother is the one who is not making this easy by willfully ignoring his duty to your shared line. The Landsmeet already granted far more leeway than was prudent in legitimizing the boy he had by the witch. And now, not only is he expecting a bastard by another mistress, but he’s ignored the law and entered into a clandestine marriage. You must officially declare it null and void, backed by the Landsmeet, and marry him off to someone proper with all due haste.”

Alistair resisted the urge to rest his head in his hands. Instead, he kept good posture in his chair behind his desk. “I take it you’ve someone in mind?”

“Lady Meghan Vael _might_ be amenable to the idea, should you and Queen Anora speak with her.”

“But we won’t. Look, I gave him permission. In front of the Landsmeet or not, it was given. I’m not going to just take that back, and I certainly don’t want to tear apart his marriage. He loves her. She loves him. It’s kind of sweet, really.”

For a moment, Eamon’s hard expression softened. “Alistair, were he a Cousland as he was raised, and not a Theirin as he’s become due to Cailan’s death and you subsequently assuming the throne, this would not be the issue it is. There would be difficulties, yes, for Líadan is an elf. But even as a member of the nobility, it would not be impossible. As a member of the royal family, however—”

“You believe it impossible. That the Landsmeet won’t agree to it.”

“There’s certainly not a precedent for it.”

The papers on Alistair’s desk suddenly became unimportant, and he shoved them to the side so he could have something to do with his hands. “She’s been good for him, you know. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but he’s grown up a lot, especially in the last year.” He waved his fingers around and then pressed them to his forehead. “Ignoring those other little things you’ve brought up.” He was doing his best not to recall the last time he and Eamon had had a good go-around about Malcolm. Nothing in the past year had even come close to approaching the epic-level clash they’d had in Highever right after Fiona had died and Malcolm had returned from an unscheduled trip to Cumberland. Whatever ills Alistair might have had with him, he could never bring himself to forget that Eamon had provided for him when he was a child. He’d been fed, clothed, and sheltered. Granted, the shelter was a barn, and that was before chucking him into a monastery, but Eamon hadn’t been obligated to do anything at all, and yet he had. He owed him for that, even now, and so he kept his temper.

“One would have to be blind not to notice. Were she human and not a mage, no one would argue with the match, not even me. Yet that is not the reality, and we must face it for what it is. She is an inappropriate choice for wife to a prince of the blood. Their marriage contract was secret, without public permission, and therefore illegal. There are a few ways to salvage the situation as much as it can be, but they will require swift, firm action on your part. Namely, sending Líadan to live at Vigil’s Keep and not here in Denerim.”

“You’ll have to take that one up with Warden Commander Hildur,” Alistair said. “The Crown isn’t in charge of Grey Warden postings.”

Eamon did not hide his slight sigh of exasperation. “You cannot deny you haven’t some influence with the Warden Commander.”

“Whatever influence you think I—”

The door opened without a knock of warning, and Malcolm burst in, his breath coming in great gasps. For all the time he’d taken in not telling Alistair about his marriage, it certainly seemed to Alistair that he’d been in a rush to do so now. 

Malcolm glanced from Alistair to Eamon and back again. “Shit.”

Alistair slowly looked from his brother to the arl. “Eamon, you can go.”

The arl stood, yet did not leave. “But—”

“Eamon, you have a younger brother of your own. Imagine Malcolm were Teagan, and he’d done something of a similar nature as my own brother has. Now, imagine you reacted to it purely as a brother would and nothing else.”

“I see your point, Your Majesty.”

“I thought you might.”

Eamon nodded, and it was almost deep enough to be a bow. “Then I will speak with you later, Your Majesty.” After getting acknowledgement from Alistair, Eamon walked out of the room, leaving Malcolm to Alistair’s mercy.

Alistair reminded himself that mercy was a good thing, a fine trait for kings to have. And that he also loved his brother, and if he found himself having difficulty being convinced of such, that he really did think of Líadan as a sister, and that out of love for her, he shouldn’t do anything too awful to his brother.

It was still a close thing. What saved Malcolm was that Alistair realized Líadan was now truly his sister-in-law, which pleased him to no end despite the circumstances. “It’s a good thing I really like Líadan, you know,” Alistair said out loud.

Malcolm, who was bent over, hands on his knees and still trying to catch his breath—Maker’s blood, had he sprinted the entire way from Eamon’s estate?—let out a strained laugh. “What? No headlocks? No punches?”

“Not in here. Warrick would have my head. Later, though, I might need you to show me what Thierry’s taught you lately. And then show you that you still can’t beat me in a sparring match. And by showing you, I mean give you bruises on your bruises, and send you flying back on your arse so many times that you lose count.”

“Oh, so you _are_ pissed.”

“What gave that away? The scathing tone? The plans for your humiliation?”

“Your eyebrow, actually. Raised pretty high when I came in. Never bodes well, and you fixed it right on me.”

Alistair finally gave into his urge to slump back in his chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” It wasn’t like he didn’t know the answer, but he still wanted to hear it.

Malcolm settled lightly into the chair across from the desk, taking great care to choose the seat Eamon had not been sitting in. “Because I couldn’t. If the Chantry got wind of it and put you to question, it wouldn’t have gone very well. I probably shouldn’t have told Eamon like I did, but he was drawing actual, well-meaning people into his ideas of marrying me off, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

What Alistair really hated about the entire situation was that he’d been left out of things, once again, for his supposed own good. It had happened enough to him as a child and a youth that he wanted the choice to be _his_ as an adult. That went doubly so when the people involved who decided to make the choice for him were younger than him.“So your decision to break the news had nothing to do with not telling me?”

“I wanted to tell you. I did. I thought for sure that you’d somehow figure it out before now. You very nearly guessed exactly what we were doing, way back in Highever.”

Alistair’s slump disappeared and he dropped his hand from where it’d been massaging his forehead. “Wait, you got married back in Highever?” 

“We did a Dalish bonding with Lanaya officiating, so it had to be done before her clan left in anticipation of the Divine’s arrival.”

“Right. Well, that makes sense.” He wanted to ask, because he wanted to know, but at the same time, he didn’t. “Who else knew?”

“The Dalish.”

Like he was going to buy that simple, obviously not entirely true answer. “And?”

“Hildur and Wynne were there, as well as Nuala and technically Cáel, but he was asleep for the whole thing.” Malcolm looked toward the window. While his hands didn’t move, his feet scuffed at the floor.

Alistair wondered which of them the more abysmal liar. It didn’t much matter, in the end, because they both were horrible at it. “And? Fergus was there, wasn’t he? You told him.”

“I didn’t mean to. I mean, I didn’t actually tell him, not really. He guessed, and then forced a confession out of me. There wasn’t much I could do.” He finally stopped bothering to look out the window and faced Alistair again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I am.”

“I’m sure.” Alistair did his best not to sound petulant, but the hurt crept into his voice regardless. It wasn’t something he often dwelled on—and he’d certainly not mentioned it to either Fergus or Malcolm—but part of him still believed that Malcolm thought Fergus more important to him as a brother than Alistair. He could understand it, he could. Malcolm had grown up with Fergus. He and Fergus had done all those brotherly things that brothers did together. They shared memories and family and Alistair didn’t have that with them. He had shared blood with Malcolm, and memories of being brothers since the start of the Blight, but that was it. Pretty much nothing when compared to a lifetime of such things. 

Malcolm sighed. “You’re upset.”

“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t be?”

“Well, no. I just... I hadn’t...” He sighed and flopped his head back to stare at the ceiling in frustration.

Alistair ran a tired hand through his hair and decided he didn’t want to think about the painful subjects anymore. “Eamon was kind enough to inform me that—” 

Without warning, the study’s door opened. When Alistair noticed it was Anora and Líadan who walked through, he placed his head face down on his desk. “Does anyone around here bother to knock? Was no one taught that as a child? I was raised in a barn and even I know to knock.”

“Warrick told us to come in,” said Anora. “He’s standing right outside if you would like to verify.”

“No, I won’t question him and risk making him cross.” Alistair lifted his head and studied the two women as they found chairs of their own. “I know why you’re here, but how did you know to come here at the same time?”

“I had a page find Anora,” said Líadan, who then gave Malcolm a dark look. “I was left behind by a certain someone who decided he’d sprint ahead to try to get to you before Eamon did.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “If you could move faster than a bronto wallowing in mud, I wouldn’t have gotten ahead of you.”

Alistair wondered if his brother knew he was building his own funeral pyre, the way he kept going. Maybe he should just leave Malcolm to keep doing so, because he was proving spectacularly good at it, if Líadan’s sharp glare was any indication. It could end up being punishment enough. Alistair sighed and glanced at Anora. Her brow was furrowed and her hands folded on her lap—well, what was left of it—which indicated she’d already gotten to planning what they would do going forward with this new information. “What are we going to do?” he asked her. “Eamon had a few ideas.”

“I’m certain he did, and I’m not sure how many of the legalities will apply in this case. Am I correct in assuming he brought up the matter of it being a crime?”

“Alistair gave us permission,” said Malcolm.

“Not in public, in front of the Landsmeet, as is required,” said Anora. “As such, it still remains a punishable crime to sticklers like Eamon. For a clandestine marriage performed outside the purview of the Chantry, it is declared null and void. A marriage recognized or performed by the Chantry remains valid, but the royal in question is censured, and other punishments generally given. The listed punishments include exile, forfeiture of lands, goods, and titles, and imprisonment at the Crown’s pleasure. None of those punishments are light.”

Malcolm had ceased his fidgeting. “I don’t have any lands.”

“True,” said Alistair.

His brother went on. “I suppose you could take my titles, aside from the Warden ones. I think I’d be okay with that. It’d mean Cáel would be out of the line of succession—also something I’d be fine with.”

“Also true.”

“I believe one of the traditional methods of exile is to force the person to join the Grey Wardens.” Malcolm glanced down at the arming jacket he wore, one of his fingers drifting over the Warden griffon. “Hey, look at that. Problem solved.”

His brother was going to be the death of him. Why had he ever even wanted a brother? A sister would have better. Well, if said sister wasn’t like Goldanna. Maker’s breath, perhaps it _was_ best to be an only child. “You know as well as I do that the Landsmeet wouldn’t remove you from the line of succession unless you committed actual treason, like conspiring with Orlais, and not for doing something stupid and shortsighted that can sometimes be named as treason in the worst cases.” He considered the matter for a moment, and then said, “Imprisonment is still an option.”

Malcolm’s eyes briefly flicked toward Líadan. “You wouldn’t imprison me.”

Not that Alistair wasn’t sorely tempted to toss him into Fort Drakon for no small amount of time to think about what he’d done, but Malcolm was right. For the sake of Líadan, Cáel, and Alistair’s yet to be born niece, he wouldn’t imprison his brother. Maker knew he _wanted_ to, though. “No, I wouldn’t.” He looked toward Anora. “So, what do we do?”

“We bring the matter before the spring Landsmeet and let them decide, for the most part,” said Anora. “I am not sure what they will do. I’m fairly certain they won’t revoke titles or call for exile, but I’m not certain they will allow the marriage to stand, especially with it having been performed by a Dalish Keeper and not a vested priest of the Chantry.”

“Wait,” said Malcolm, lifting a hand. “Wait, wait. When I was telling Eamon about this, Meghan Vael was right there. She said that in the Free Marches, Dalish bondings are recognized by the Chantry, by declaration from the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. So there’s precedent for not having a basis for voiding the marriage. Not that I’d consider it null and void if they said so.”

“I’m not Eamon,” said Alistair. “My goal is to keep you together, not separate you. We just have to figure out how to get the Landsmeet to play nice.”

Malcolm let out a laugh that sounded far too bitter to Alistair. “The throne has been trying to do that for ages, without any luck. I’ll not get my hopes up for that to change.”

“It may not turn out as negative as you seem to assume it will,” said Anora. “The past few Landsmeets have returned unprecedented results, and mark a significant change in the Bannorn and its outlook. I suspect the Blight and the civil war had something to do with that, and that Ferelden’s royal line was nearly wiped out. In addition, it isn’t as if you’ve plucked some random woman from the forest—”

Líadan got to her feet. “You can just say it, you know. What this really comes down to is that I’m an elf, and not much else. Maybe a little with the mage thing, but that’s the Chantry’s problem and not the Landsmeet’s issue. The problem here is that I’m an elf. Not that I’m considered a commoner or was raised in the forests or am a Grey Warden. The problem is that I’m an elf. It’s the same problem that Fiona faced with Maric repeated all over again, except that I’m not Orlesian, and that might be the only thing I have going for me. Well, maybe having fought the Archdemon will hold some sway, but people seem to forget about that fairly fast. I’m not even sure Eamon ever realized I’d fought the Archdemon.”

Alistair swore he could feel the blood seep from his face. He’d never told Anora about Fiona. Not one mention. It wasn’t because they hadn’t reached a certain point of trust in the matter—they had. It was because he’d shoved aside and packed away all the feelings he had over the matter of Fiona’s short, yet not insignificant involvement in his life, and her altogether too soon death.

“Fiona?” asked Anora, because of course she would pick right up on that because Alistair had to go marry a very intelligent spouse. “You mean the Grey Warden who died last year? What would she have to do with this?”

Líadan whirled around to look at Alistair. “You haven’t _told_ her?”

Andraste herself could not fail to see the irony in this, he thought.

Anora turned as well. “Told me what?”

He exchanged a look with Malcolm, who shrugged, and then proceeded to study his feet. Right, a very not helpful brother he had. Alistair scowled at him and then turned to Anora. “Fiona is Malcolm’s mother.” He fervently wished that Anora wouldn’t leap to the next conclusion—that Fiona was also _his_ mother—but he held no hope that she wouldn’t. She was too sharp not to.

Anora studied Malcolm for a moment before leveling her penetrating gaze on Alistair. “She is your mother as well, I presume?”

Alistair hadn’t outright lied to his wife, not yet. And judging from the past weeks, he couldn’t afford to start, nor did he want to. “Yes.”

She strode over to the window, saying nothing for what felt like a very long time. Without turning, she asked, “Who else knows of this?”

“Fergus,” said Malcolm. “Wynne, Hildur, Oghren. Morrigan and Nathaniel, but they really don’t count at this point.”

“Eamon,” said Alistair, when it became obvious that Malcolm didn’t want to name him.

Anora crossed her arms, her hands tightly gripping her elbows. “It is dangerous for him to know.”

“We’re aware, but his knowledge was unavoidable.” Mostly because Eamon was too damn good at snooping, but during the Blight, they hadn’t been as aware of the extent of Eamon’s political savvy. 

“It gives him too much leverage, should he be pushed.”

He didn’t mention what she’d just said was the very reason why Eamon got away with what he did; she had probably figured that out already, and to tell her would be taken as an insult. So he sought to reassure as best he could. “As long as he has no other Theirin options aside from us, he won’t reveal the information.” They were mostly sure he wouldn’t. Mostly. Eamon had to have limits, and they didn’t want to find out the hard way what they were.

“The longer he holds onto it, the less a danger it becomes. You’re becoming a very popular king, Alistair. A few more years and the people, including the nobility, won’t care enough to dethrone you or worse. Now is the most critical time.”

“He’d still have to find a Theirin to replace me, and Malcolm or Cáel don’t count. They aren’t far enough removed from the magic. We’ve looked for other bastards of Maric’s, but have yet to find any.”

“And clearly, the issue of the lack of heirs was a fault of Cailan’s, so I suspect he never left any of his own behind.” Anora turned and studied Alistair once more, the look on her face frighteningly inscrutable. “You are certain you have none of your own, Alistair?”

If he hadn’t known her as well as he did, he would not have recognized the sheen of hurt in her eyes. “I’m certain. Aside from you, I’ve one been with one other woman, and she’s dead.”

Anora nodded. “I had to be sure. I...” she trailed off and looked at the other two people in the room. “Could you excuse us, please? I mean no offense, but—”

“I understand,” said Líadan. The immediate relaxation of her limbs gave away her relief at being dismissed.

“Thank you. If the two of you could find Lady Vael and convene in the solar for tea and further planning? We should be along in perhaps half an hour, at most.”

With an unnerving quiet, Malcolm and Líadan departed, leaving a gaping silence in the room behind them.

Alistair had no idea what to think. He was afraid. Honestly afraid that he’d inadvertently broken the forming bonds of his marriage simply because he’d avoided a single thought about a troubling memory of his own. He had been selfish, and now the consequences of his shortsightedness would come to pass.

He said nothing. He’d already not said enough, and speaking now would only make it worse. After some time, as Alistair began to think he could see the rift forming between them, the solid earth that had been the foundation of their delicate trust rocked by the quakes from his own faults, Anora spoke.

She spoke in a tone of voice he hadn’t heard in years, one so controlled and careful and precise that he almost felt like he was back at the Landsmeet before the end of the Blight, when Anora had spoken out against her own father. It gave him a chill, and it wasn’t because of the memory of Loghain. 

“I will not betray you,” she said. At Alistair’s confused expression, she pursed her lips before she went on to explain. “I will not subvert the throne. To do so would destabilize Ferelden.”

When she fell silent again, Alistair felt a response was demanded of him. “Yes, it would. That’s what keeps Eamon in check.” Though she’d said the words, that she wouldn’t betray him—or did she merely mean Ferelden?—his fear had not abandoned him, wrapping tight iron bands around his chest.

She nodded. Then, after another long period of time, the fear constricting Alistair’s chest causing him to think of the giant snakes in Seheron, Anora asked, “Do you not trust me?”

“What?” This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected anger, not whatever this was.

“Not in the beginning, of course, but... I had thought we had formed a certain level of trust between us. You had even confided in me some secrets of your Order, trusted me with those, and yet, in all this time, you have failed to mention your mother.”

The control in her tone was so brittle that Alistair feared it would shatter. “I take it you’d like me to be honest?”

“If it would please you.”

She was being a baffling mix of courteous and personal, and it confounded him, muddling up his thoughts even more. “Of course it would,” he said, and then sighed. “Look, I just... it wasn’t intentional. I just didn’t want to think about it. Her. How she had been absent all my life because of who she was, who my father was, and circumstance. And then she was here, right here—well, not here in this room, but you get what I’m saying—and just as quickly, she was gone again, for good.” The words, scraps and slips of emotion and thought that’d spent the past year lurking in a dusty corner of his preoccupied mind, stumbled and slid as Alistair vocalized them. He’d barely let himself think them, much less say them out loud. Thoughts became _real_ , then. 

His wife, however, deserved to hear them. As unrefined as they were, they were the truth.

“It was like...” He reached out, grabbing the first metaphor he could think of. “It was like someone had started to stitch up a wound, and things started feeling all right inside. Then someone else came along and ripped out the stitches, leaving it more torn and gaping than before. For those kinds of wounds, on the battlefield, you stuff them with rags and put pressure on them until either the bleeding stops or a healer comes by. So, that’s what I did, because that’s what I’ve always done. That’s how I survived as a bastard stable boy in Redcliffe, life as a reluctant templar initiate in the Chantry, life as a Grey Warden during the Blight, and then after, when I had to become king when I’d always been told I never would be, and that I was never worthy of it.” He took a steadying breath. “So there you go. That’s why I never told you. Not because I didn’t grow to trust you—because I did. Have.” He winced. “I mean, I do. I trust you.”

Anora’s brows had furrowed ever so slightly between her eyes. They moved back and forth over his own, assessing him as he’d witnessed her do over many a meeting with various banns. Then she asked, “Her death was not... planned?”

Not a question he’d been expecting. “The Calling? No. It... it’s hard to explain.” He hesitated only long enough for him to realize it was no time to hesitate. In for a copper, in for a sovereign. “Short of it was she was cured of the taint either just before or just after I was born. They never figured out how, but she was. She remained at Weisshaupt until she came here, after the Blight, as an active Warden once more. When she went into the Deep Roads to investigate some rather creepy darkspawn things that you really, truly do _not_ want to hear, even if you think you do, she was bitten and tainted again. The only cure, as you know, is to undertake the Joining and become a Grey Warden.” He did his best to curtail the amount of strain in his voice, but knew he failed as much as he had with not getting upset at his brother earlier. The rising note of hysteria didn’t help, either, but without the humor, he didn’t have the will to confront the sadness left in its wake. “Turns out, people don’t survive a second time. Who knew?” He shrugged for effect, mostly because it gave his body something to do.

“You assumed she would live through it?” Again with the neutral curiosity, nothing more, and nothing less. He wished it were either instead of none because it would hurt less than whatever this was.

“She’d survived one, so we all figured another wouldn’t be a big deal. None of us were prepared for the other outcome like we usually are for Joinings.” He’d gone into battle naked, exposed, and left the battlefield flayed alive, all of them had. They’d been casualties of a war they didn’t know they were in until they’d been defeated. “I wasn’t. I thought we would have had more time to... I don’t know. Something. She couldn’t be my mother, not really, but...” He had no idea how he could miss something so much when he’d never had it. How did his mind even know about having a mother? How did it know what empty shape a missing mother left behind? And yet, it did. “Some semblance of it was and would have been far better than nothing.” He wanted every instant of those last moments with her back so he could stretch them out over the course of a lifetime, a lifetime where he’d had a mother. The want for it beckoned him, as comforting and warm as a well-worn quilt wrapped around him on a cold, drizzly morning. 

And this was why he tried not to think about it, _didn’t_ think about it, because it was a want that could never, ever be filled. The woman who’d given birth to him had never been a mother to him; she was never given a chance. No other woman had stepped forward to take her place. Then when his birth mother had reappeared, he hadn’t given himself or her the chance, and neither had she, both of them too cautious until it was too late. This want, the empty part of his very being, would always be there, a mother-shaped nothingness that would never be filled.

It was far easier not to think about it, but Anora didn’t know, so he talked about it. “There’ve only been a few times I’ve thought about her since she died.” _Right in front of me_ , _tumbling to the ground faster than Riordan could move to catch her, the Joining chalice hitting the altar at the same time as her head smacked against the floor. Líadan saying something must have gone wrong, and me, for once, saying nothing, the fear absolutely choking in its uncaring grip._

Later, Wynne said that Fiona had been dead before she’d even dropped the chalice. The news hadn’t helped any of them cope; the lack of preparation had left them bare to a reality that ripped them raw at the chance. 

_“Were you ever tempted to return to Ferelden and take us back?”_

_“Every day.”_

“I thought about her when I found out about Cáel, when Malcolm told me about his new child with Líadan, and when...” He dropped his gaze to where his and Anora’s child grew in the slight swelling of her middle. 

Anora shifted her hand to rest on it, but she remained silent.

He didn’t. “I thought it would have been nice for her to experience grandchildren in whatever way she could have—certainly more than she’d a chance at being our mother. Then I’d remember she was gone, none of us would have that chance, and I shoved more rags into the wound and put even more pressure on it.” He shrugged again. “And that’s why I never told you. So, I’m sorry if... I’m sorry if finding out my true heritage ruins it for you. Having a child, I mean. I know you’ve looked forward to it, and not just for the heir aspect, and to find out partway through that your child will carry blood you’d not known, or carry the potential for an ability that’s akin to a curse... I can see how that could change happiness to dread or revulsion or something.” It was only slightly less unbearable to speak of the possibility of Anora feeling disgust toward their child than it was to speak of what she must now feel concerning him. He’d known she was fond of him, at the very least, but he suspected that was no longer the case, and feared what it might have changed into.

Still, Anora’s look was inscrutable. Then she stepped forward and lightly pressed her hand to his chest.

Alistair nearly stopped breathing right there, because he had no idea, none, of what she intended.

“If I could heal your wound, I would,” she said. “Yet, my touch hasn’t the ability, and my words... I am good with words.” She nodded, more to herself than him, and the confidence showed. “Words have always come easily to me, so long as they are not of a heartfelt nature.” Her confidence waned. “Those words, ones from the heart, of the heart, I am not so good with. To both my detriment and yours, it would seem. I had not needed them before. My mother said enough for both of us, my father simply understood what neither of us could speak, and with Cailan, they were never truly necessary.” Her hand pressed a little more, coming into full contact with his doublet. Her eyes darted upward to his, and then returned to her hand. “I care for you, more than I had expected. It did not happen immediately, and yet it did happen. Once, if I had come into the knowledge of your true mother, I would have done with it exactly as you would have expected—taken it to the Landsmeet, had you deposed, and then exiled or executed.”

He stiffened at hearing such a fate, one that haunted to this day, falling from her lips.

In answer, she took his hand in her free one, her grip light. Yet, for Anora, the simple action meant as much as another gripping a lover’s hand tightly. “Once,” she said. “That is no longer the case. I could not betray you now. I will not betray you. I care too much, and such a feeling cannot simply be revoked, no matter how convenient it would be at times. And, before you ask,” she said, and then tugged his hand downward to rest on her abdomen, “it is not just because of our child. It was—is—something about you that I cannot identify that brings out these feelings within me.”

Alistair’s eyes slid from holding her gaze to look at their joined hands and what they curved over. “What about the elven blood? What about the magic?” He wasn’t so idealistic to believe that everyone was as open and uncaring of it as he was. Anora had horizons slightly more expanded that a typical Andrastian’s, but there were limits, especially where potential children and heirs were concerned.

“You are human. I am human. Our child will be human. That is all the Landsmeet need know. The extent of your elven blood, or our child’s, is not of their concern. At one time, the elven would have bothered me, but that was before I knew you, and before I had elven friends. Regarding the magic... I cannot say. It does not disgust me, yet the possibility frightens me, especially if this child should be the only heir we have. Should she—or he—turn out to be a mage, I will care for her no less, just as I cannot with you.”

He began to wonder if Anora meant ‘love’ when she said ‘care.’ Well, she had told him that words from the heart were hard for her. At this point, he’d take what he could get, and decided not to dwell on that aspect of the conversation. “You fear magic?” he asked.

“Not magic, and not mages in general, no. What I do fear is what my child might suffer should she become a mage. What Ferelden might suffer should she be a mage, especially if Cáel becomes one, as well. Yet, there is nothing that can be done for it now, so there is no point in dwelling on it.”

“I’m sorry that I carry that trait, dormant as it is within me.” He felt guilty for carrying it, and then felt guilty over that because it meant he resented Fiona, in a way. The magic was her legacy left to him.

“You need not apologize. It isn’t your fault, and you needn’t sully your mother’s memory with blame.”

Perhaps Anora did understand, to some degree, his struggles over his missing mother. He felt a little better, but not much. “Are we all right? I didn’t screw this up to terribly, did I?”

“A certain amount of irritation does not undo the foundation we have made between us, Alistair,” said Anora. “I must admit, I do feel somewhat better that it was not distrust that kept you from informing me. My irritation now lies largely with your brother.”

“You want to hit him? I’ll hold him down.” What he really wanted to do was jump about the room in celebration that Anora wasn’t mad at him, and then go beat up his brother. However, he didn’t want Anora to get the wrong idea, so he kept it to himself.

Her lips curled the tiniest bit upward. “Perhaps one day I’ll take you up on that offer, but not right now.” She sighed and stepped away from Alistair to pace in a small circle. “I had honestly suspected they had done such a thing, especially when we found out that Keeper Lanaya’s clan would be leaving Ferelden for an unknown, likely long, amount of time. They are both still impulsive enough, even given their recent maturity, and even I have to admit our problems with the Chantry make a daunting task of gaining approval from the Divine. And there was a certain aura of contentedness about them, even with all the turmoil.” She stopped her pacing to look at him. “Did you truly not notice?”

He crossed his arms and did his best to appear knowledgable. “Well, now that you mention it... no. I didn’t notice anything. Maybe it’s a secret power of yours. I’ve heard queens have such things.” When she didn’t crack, he kept on. “Or maybe a pregnant lady thing? It’s a thing, I know that much.”

“I think...” Anora stared at the closed door, and Alistair would have sworn to Andraste he saw her lips twitch. “I think we should find Malcolm, Líadan, and Lady Vael to discuss what we need do.”

Mostly in agreement with Anora’s suggestion, Alistair opened the door and motioned her through. “All right, but I still think our best course would be for me or you to hit him until he agrees never to do such a thing ever again.”

“The thought is tempting enough.”

“And here I thought you were the civilized one.”

She laughed—actually laughed—and threaded her arm through the crook of his elbow as they walked to the solar.

When Alistair and Anora entered the solar, Malcolm, Líadan, and Meghan Vael were in the midst of conversation. 

“The Chantry in Kirkwall can grant him protection they won’t grant me unless I endeavor to become an affirmed—” Meghan stopped and stood at the quiet entrance of the King and Queen.

Anora waved off the gesture. “Please, continue what you were saying. I admit, I’ve been curious about why you couldn’t remain in Kirkwall like your brother has.”

Meghan nodded and returned to her chair. “Varric made some discreet inquiries about the possibility of my remaining in Kirkwall, under the Chantry’s protection. Because they still have yet to recant their position on my being dead—which will take even longer now with the installation of a new Divine—their condition was that I become an affirmed sister. That condition was unacceptable to me, and Varric couldn’t assure my protection in Kirkwall without the aid of the Chantry’s massive influence there. His companions agreed with his assessment and sent me here. I asked them not to inform Sebastian that I was alive, because then he would feel compelled to leave the Chantry and come after me, which would put him in danger, as well.” She paused and twisted her fingers in her lap. “Though my life is far less in danger here, the situation is far from ideal, I’ve come to discover.”

“Eamon should treat his guests better. As in, not kick them out,” said Malcolm.

Anora slightly quirked her eyebrow at Meghan. “Arl Eamon revoked your status as his guest?”

“I did not agree with his idea that I become betrothed to Malcolm,” she replied. “Considering he is already wed, I did not think it wrong to decline.”

Líadan nodded, and no resentment appeared in her expression until she looked elsewhere and swore under her breath in Elvish. Alistair caught ‘Eamon’ once or twice, and it didn’t take much imagination to know at whom her anger was directed.

“Eamon thinks the marriage is invalid,” said Anora. “It very well could be. We are not sure, because the situation is unique. Either way, the Landsmeet has to agree to let it stand, and that is only if the Chantry sees it as valid in the first place.”

“It would be in the Free Marches,” said Meghan. “Grand Cleric Elthina declared Dalish bondings to be recognized by the Chantry some years ago. Since I am from the Free Marches, I am beholden to that statute.”

Alistair walked over to the window, rubbing at his chin as he did. “I still think it would be best if we kept you out of Eamon’s sight for as long as possible. It won’t make him forget, but it will put the notion of haste out of his head. He’ll have to come around to that, anyway. The Bannorn really can’t afford another early Landsmeet. The winter Landsmeet is at the end of winter for a reason—travel isn’t the safest until then. We will have to put this before them, make no mistake, but it will have to wait. I don’t intend to have the Seekers here for it, either.”

“To bad we can’t kick _them_ out,” said Malcolm.

Alistair sighed as he turned to respond to his brother. “Look, if we keep cooperating, maybe the Divine won’t declare an Exalted March on us for kicking out her templars. Cooperation is pretty much our last chance.” He didn’t like the serious nature of the conversation, nor did his relish the idea of going against the wishes of his brother and sister-in-law, but he’d come to understand the necessities of what his country required of him and those close to him to do things they’d rather not. He kept his expression grave when he looked at Malcolm again. “And we’ll need the Divine’s good graces to get the dispensation. If we can get the Bannorn to agree to let your marriage stand—which is what we’re pushing for—they’ll want something officiated by the Chantry.”

Malcolm’s face remained neutral, but Líadan did nothing to hide her scowl.

“You take exception?” asked Anora. The queen did not sound angry; she sounded expectant, for she knew her friend well.

Líadan sat back and crossed her arms over her rounded belly. “Of course I do.”

“Consider it a favor?” asked Alistair. “I didn’t get to see you bond. I’d at least like to see your pretend-for-the-Chantry-and-Landsmeet wedding.” For good measure, he mustered the best pitiful eyes he could.

She didn’t outright reject his request, which he took as a good sign. She met his gaze for a moment before breaking off to look about the room, her fingers idly scratching at her forearm. Then she heaved a mighty sigh and looked at Alistair. “All right.”

Malcolm snapped his head around toward her, his mouth slightly open in astonishment. “You agree to it for him, and kept refusing Hildur when she suggested it?”

She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What? Hildur doesn’t have the eyes! You saw how he looked at me. How could I turn that down? It’d be like yelling at a halla.”

“Kicking a puppy, I would say,” said Meghan, and showed the first hint of humor Alistair had witnessed in the princess. “I would suggest His Majesty employ that look in trade or peace negotiations in the future.”

“If it would truly work, I would encourage it in an instant,” said Anora. Then she turned to Líadan. “Thank you.” More waited behind her eyes, but with a guest among them—one only newly trusted—Anora kept whatever else she had to say to herself.

Alistair clapped his hands together and looked at Malcolm. “So, how do you think Fergus would feel about a guest?”

“He likes guests,” Malcolm said, drawing out the reply to sound like a question.

Alistair nodded. “Excellent. Then if Lady Vael is amenable to the idea, I’ll have a contingent of my guards take her to Highever’s estate as can be arranged with the teyrn.”

Meghan began to nod, and then hesitated, doubt clouding her features. 

“Teyrn Cousland is very nice, has good manners, isn’t a lout, and won’t kick you out for disagreeing with him,” said Malcolm. “Highever is also by the sea, if he’s able to get out of the city.”

She finished her nod. “If the teyrn agrees, so will I.”

“I’ll speak with him later and make the arrangements,” said Alistair.

Malcolm stood, looking as if he’d had enough pushing of boundaries for the day. “If that’s all,” he said, “we’ve got training to attend and oversee at the compound.”

Oh, training. Alistair jumped at the opening. “I believe I’ll go with you. Wouldn’t want me to become rusty as a Warden.”

Líadan shot him a glance that said she didn’t believe him for an instant. Malcolm’s look was wary, but he agreed. When they got to the compound, Líadan went to resume her research, and Malcolm set off to organize the recruits while Alistair waited in the yard. It was a nice enough day for it, chilly but he’d warm up once he started sparring. Oghren wandered out the door from the building and joined Alistair, but said nothing at first. After a few minutes of them both leaning against the fence and draped in a comfortable silence, Oghren dug a flask of ale from his pocket—Alistair hoped it was his pocket—and offered it to Alistair. 

He accepted it and took a slug, wincing when he realized it was dwarven ale.

“You heard?” asked Oghren. “About the blighter and the elf?”

“Yeah.”

“They didn’t tell you, either?”

“Nope.”

Oghren nodded. “I know why they didn’t tell me, even though I know they trust me with their lives.” He indicated the flask Alistair held before taking it back and studying it. “This is sodding why. Get enough in me and I can’t keep a secret worth a nug’s fart. Knowing that’s harder to swallow than the cheap swill at Tapsters.”

“Isn’t that the one they make from moss and bronto droppings?”

“Aye.”

“That’s pretty bad.”

“Yep.” Oghren took another sip, and then offered the flask to Alistair again. “Another?”

“Please.” It made Alistair’s eyes tear up when he took a sip, but he didn’t mind.

“Only thing that keeps me from spilling Warden secrets is I drink to forget ‘em.”

“I thought you drank to forget Branka?”

“She’s tied up in all that Warden stuff, seeing how we found her.”

“Ah.” Maker’s breath, but Oghren had issues Alistair hadn’t even really thought about. He’d always assumed Oghren just... went with things. Instead, he buried them like the rest of them did, and then poured ale over the dirt.

“Yep. At least them not telling you wasn’t self-inflicted. Be glad for that.” Oghren took his flask back and tucked it away. “You going to beat him up?”

“Absolutely.” The mere prospect of teaching his brother a lesson brightened Alistair’s outlook. He grinned down at his friend. “Want in?”

Oghren returned the grin. “I’d be delighted.”


	51. Chapter 51

“Those born with magic are at a terrible disadvantage, for demons can always rob them of their self. Because of this, the Qunari name them _saarebas_ , meaning ‘dangerous thing,’ and treat them with the utmost caution. _Saarebas_ must be carefully controlled by someone else, an _arvaarad_ , ‘one who holds back evil,’ because they cannot truly control themselves. The evil is not the mage, but the loss of the mage, the loss of the mage’s self, and the suffering that inevitably follows.”

— _from the writings of the seer of Kont-aar_ , 8:41 Blessed

**Líadan**

****Two weeks. Over two weeks since Alistair had made the agreement with the Seekers that they would remain in Denerim, and too many days before that, as well, making it nearly three weeks since Líadan had seen Cáel. Though Malcolm had been unconscious for most of those first days, he’d also not see their son since Cáel had been whisked away to Vigil’s Keep to be guarded by the fortress’s walls and the might of the Grey Wardens. Tonight, she decided, she would speak with Bethany about leaving Denerim and getting to Vigil’s Keep without being caught be Seekers. Bethany had been raised as an apostate by an apostate father, and they’d never been caught by the templars, so she knew how to avoid them. Líadan intended to make full use of that knowledge.

She wanted Malcolm to come with her, and would do her best to convince him, but wasn’t sure if his personal morals of giving his word would outweigh his longing to see his son. It could go either way, she knew. She wouldn’t hold it against him if he elected to stay to try to keep the peace in the wake of her departure, but she would miss him a great deal. The separation would only serve as fuel for her dislike of the Chantry, its Seekers, and its templars. 

What didn’t help her current frustration was how absolutely infuriating it was to attempt to teach Rhian archery. The woman had no aptitude for it at all, and if they’d been in a Dalish clan, Rhian would’ve long since been sent to the Keeper to find another, more appropriate apprenticeship. The closest thing the Wardens had to a Keeper lately was Wynne. If Rhian was so determined not to use a crossbow or blades, the only thing left was to develop her magic, which meant being one of Wynne’s students.

When Líadan again informed Rhian of this, she refused once more, ignoring Líadan in favor of continuing to shoot arrows at the target and missing the vast majority of her shots. Rhian’s next shot went wide, the arrow pelting uselessly against the stone wall set far behind the targets. Before Rhian could nock the next arrow, Líadan reached out and snatched it from her hand as she drew it from her quiver. 

Finally, _finally_ , Rhian looked at her as she reached for another arrow. “What?”

“Go see Wynne.” Líadan tucked the arrow back into the quiver. “Work on your magic. Your skill isn’t in archery.”

“Not yet.” Rhian started to turn back to the targets, raising her bow as she did.

Líadan grabbed the other Warden’s bow and yanked it from her hands before she could react. “You’re wasting your time and mine. Your magic has the potential to be devastatingly strong—if you’d bother to learn. With archery, you could recite methods and practices until you’re blue in the face, but you don’t have the natural aptitude for it, even though you aren’t lacking in determination. Go see Wynne.”

“I want to see this through.”

“And I want to see you reach your full potential as a Warden, and that isn’t with a bow.”

Rhian folded her arms over her chest and raised her chin. “No.”

“If you don’t go see Wynne and work with her on your magic,” said Líadan, “I swear to the Creators, I will break this bow over your thick skull.”

With a mighty scowl, Rhian stalked toward the entrance to the compound, unslinging her quiver and throwing it against the wall on her way. It landed upside down, arrows spilling out onto the ground. Rhian didn’t bother turning to watch. Líadan threw Rhian’s bow at the same spot, but it refused to break, just as Rhian wouldn’t. Líadan’s temper flared again, but before it tumbled out, Revas shoved her body against Líadan’s leg. 

“Right,” said Líadan. “Need to calm down. I suppose I could take a bit of my own advice and work on what reading Wynne gave me. Not focused enough for archery this morning, it would seem.”

Revas chuffed in agreement, which made Líadan roll her eyes. 

“Yeah, I’d like to see you trying to properly use a bow. Smart as you are, the lack of thumbs will do you in every time.”

Another bump in the leg from the mabari, and Líadan took the hint, setting off in the direction of the compound’s quiet, empty library. There, she could spend the hours until the midday meal continuing her futile attempts to learn something of the healing arts. Her skill at healing was pretty much on par with Rhian’s skill at archery. There was also a bevy of information from Weisshaupt about female Wardens bearing children post-Joining, sent to Wynne via Hildur.

Líadan had only just settled into the largely dry chapter of _Spirit Healers Through the Ages_ when someone knocked on the doorframe. She looked up to find a guard standing there.

“There’s an elf at the door requesting to see the Senior Warden, ser,” he said.

Another recruit? There’d been so many, and they always requested the Senior Warden if they wanted to see her, and still referred to Malcolm as a prince when they requested him. “Tell them we’re not interviewing recruits today and to come tomorrow morning before they break their fast.” Then she returned to her reading; Weisshaupt had sent more than she, Wynne, or Hildur had thought possible. There was even still the possibility of useful information at Soldier’s Peak, should they choose to go through their archives.

The guard shifted his weight, his boots shuffling over the wooden floor. “I don’t think he seeks to be a recruit.”

That made her look up. They rarely got other unannounced visitors, and after their last experience with such, she was wary. “Just the one?”

“He appears to be unaccompanied. I sent two of the guard scouts out to check, as previously instructed.”

Usually, potential recruits showed up singly or in pairs, while other unexpected visitors arrived with entire companies of soldiers. “You really don’t think he’s volunteering as a recruit?”

“I believe he may be too old.” The guard motioned to his face. “He also has tattoos. Different from yours, but I don’t think they’re of Crow origin, either.”

And _that_ sent her to her feet. “Dalish? Was he carrying a stave?”

He nodded. “Yes to the stave. Not entirely sure if he’s Dalish, but were I to hazard a guess, I’d say yes to that, too.”

It seemed some unknown Dalish Keeper, after hearing her story at the Arlathvhen, had taken it upon himself to confront her about being with a shemlen. “Just leave him at the door. I’ll be right there.”

The guard nodded and then trotted away. Líadan paced in a small circle, alternately running her fingers through her hair to put it in some semblance of order, or checking her clothing for dirt. Then she realized what she was doing—trying to make herself appear acceptable, which was pointless. Nothing about her would make her acceptable to this Keeper, not with her being so obviously in the later stages of pregnancy and he probably knowing the father wasn’t _elvhen_. It had to be why he was here. Not content with just passing judgement from afar, a Keeper had brought Dalish judgement to her.

So, she huffed and gave up both on tidying and on calming herself. For this meeting, she’d need the protection of a charged temper. What she did not need was the insecurity of her younger self, hurt and lost because human templars had killed her parents, and her grandfather, a Dalish Keeper, had not deemed her worthy enough to care for in the aftermath. Revas joined her as she left the room, looking eagerly about, as if she could sense the impending argument. Líadan held no hope that there wouldn’t be an argument. Keepers, by and large, were far too traditional to allow for a life such as hers.

The guard who’d brought Líadan the message stood in the doorway with an older elven man, the gap of awkward silence having enough presence to seem another person with them. The elf had a stave in a sling across his back, and the sharp, angry lines of _vallaslin_ for Elgar’nan branched over and down his forehead and cheeks. 

Creators preserve her. The unwelcome visitor was her grandfather. She’d skipped the Arlathvhen to avoid this confrontation, and it had come to her instead.

Líadan told Revas to behave, and then excused the guard before taking up his place in the doorway. “Emrys.” She managed to sound more confident than she felt inside, and used that to bolster her courage. She would not be intimidated by this man, even if his dark green eyes held an ancient wisdom far beyond even Keeper Marethari’s years.

Those eyes of his went straight to her middle, swollen with a child only a couple months from birth. “So it’s true.” His voice was as she remembered it from her early childhood: rumbly and warm.

She told herself she didn’t care about the disappointment in his tone, but could not make herself believe it. “That’s the first thing you say? Why are you here?”

“Why are you not with the Mahariel?”

Líadan knew immediately that Emrys knew exactly why; he just wanted to hear it from her, or for her to give him a different, better answer. “Weren’t you just at the Arlathvhen? The story would have been passed along there, I’m certain. You know why I’m not with the Mahariel. Asking me the question won’t change the answer you’ve already heard. Did you come all the way to Denerim for that? Or do you have more disappointment and judgement you’d like to be rid of?”

He sighed, his hard look softening into one just short of confrontational. “I wanted to see you.”

She wasn’t falling for it. She would not allow herself to fall into that trap of wanting his approval and attention, like she had as a child. “You wanted to see my condition is what you wanted to see—confirmation of what only Keeper Lanaya could have told you. She’s trustworthy, so you can believe what she tells you. You’ve wasted your time coming here.” It bothered her to realize that she preferred the Seekers to her own grandfather. However, at least the Seekers gave the truth of why they interfered.

“Not if I can bring you back,” Emrys said, the momentary softness vanishing from his tone.

“Back where?”

He made a production of glancing around the doorway, at the humans, elves, and dwarves scattered at tables in the hall behind her, at the city street behind him, and then back to her. “Home with the Dalish, where you belong.” His voice shifted into one she recognized as a Keeper having settled on an absolute and would not be swayed from their course. She’d heard it often enough with Marethari. “You need not bear an elf-blooded child.” Emrys’ words took on heat and vehemence. “The Gift is to be passed along to the People, not wasted on a human.”

“And you don’t think I haven’t thought of that?” Creators, did he think she just skipped merrily along with her life, happy as a halla gorging on elfroot about having this child?

He crossed his arms. “And yet you’ve done nothing to rectify the problem.”

A problem. Exactly what she had thought he believed, both when her parents had died, and now. “That’s what I am to you, aren’t I? A problem. Keeper Emrys’ granddaughter, having a human’s child. You can’t abide it.” Not that she was very good at abiding it herself, but he didn’t need to know that. It would only be a weakness for him to exploit.

He sighed again, any trace of his anger leaving with the exhalation. “I am a Keeper, _da’len_ , as you should be.”

Her eyes narrowed. Had he spoken with Keeper Marethari? Had the Mahariel attended the Arlathvhen after all? Yet, not even her curiosity was powerful enough to overcome her unwillingness to continue engaging her grandfather in meaningless debate. “Oh, not you, too. I’m not doing this again. I’m alive and mostly well, and if you care enough to know at least that, there you go. Now, if you will excuse me, I have Grey Warden matters to attend to. _Dareth shiral_.” Without waiting to see his reaction, she spun and walked back into the compound, leaving Emrys standing in the doorway.

On her way through the main hall, she passed Malcolm.

He hastily gave way to her dark expression. “You didn’t kill someone, did you?”

“No.” She stopped and gestured violently toward the front entrance, where a bewildered guard had the door only half-closed, because Emrys still stood at the entryway. “There’s a man at the door. See that he leaves.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed in confusion, probably because he knew she usually took care of these things herself. “So, not a recruit?” he asked.

“Emrys.” She sighed at Malcolm’s quizzical look, because explaining made everything take longer to be over. “My grandfather. Just make him go.”

His look remained unsure, but he started for the door. The guard opened it fully again so Malcolm could speak with the visitor.

“You,” said Emrys when he saw Malcolm. Then his eyes went past Malcolm to cast more disapproval on Líadan, who hadn’t yet left the main hall.

Malcolm apparently saw the look. “Yes, me.” He didn’t flinch under Emrys’ glare.

Reluctant to entirely abandon Malcolm, Líadan gave up on escape for herself and dropped onto one of the long benches at the nearest table. Once there, she had to resist the urge to bury her face in her arms.

Meanwhile, Emrys stepped closer to Malcolm. “You did this.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow, but did not retreat. “Eh, that was more Sundermount and a thin Veil, strange magicky things that Wynne and the Wardens had a difficult time explaining, Líadan, and also me, but not _just_ me. However, if you’d like to set me on fire for it, go right ahead. But here’s the catch—you stop looking at her like that. I’ll burn however brightly you’d like. Turn me to cinders and ash for all I care, but stop looking at her like you are. As far as I know, you’re the last living blood relative she’s got, and you’re looking at her like she’s swamp muck you’ve gotten on your favorite boots. That isn’t right.” He held up a held to forestall Emrys’ objection. “And I know full well about the Dalish and human thing. Believe me, I do, as well as any human can know. But you don’t know everything, even if you think you do. You have no idea what she’s gone through—”

“She’s lost her clan.”

“She’s found another, and the Mahariel still acknowledge her existence. Though she no longer lives with them, I’ll grant you that.”

“She chose not to return to them when she could have, after the Blight ended. Did she choose to remain amongst the humans because of you?”

Líadan blinked at the question, though it had been posed to Malcolm and not her. Why had she stayed with the Wardens once the Blight had ended? With everyone so busy and distracted with the cleanup, she could easily have taken off and been long gone before anyone noticed. Yet, she had remained, to an extent. She _had_ left, but not the Wardens, only Ferelden, volunteering to be the one of Riordan’s Wardens who went after Malcolm.

So it had been for him. She hadn’t known it then, nor would ever have thought it, but she knew it now. Seeing it would have been very difficult back then, no matter how obvious it was.

“Just because the Archdemon was killed,” Malcolm was saying to Emrys, “doesn’t mean a Grey Warden stops being a Grey Warden. It’s a lifelong thing. You’re a Keeper, right?” Malcolm didn’t wait for an answer, even as Emrys began to nod. “You’ve got that look about you, so I know you know about the taint the Wardens take in to _become_ Wardens. That’s something that can’t be taken back, and certainly can’t be brought back to a clan of non-Wardens. This is the life she has. All the other ways were closed to her as soon as that eluvian tainted her and Tamlen.”

Emrys still looked disgusted, but astonishment at such a young man having the audacity to talk back to him had displaced some of it. Her grandfather, Líadan recalled, had never dealt well with impudent young people. Emrys grumbled, and then jerked a hand toward Líadan. “A _child_.”

Malcolm’s gaze shifted to her briefly before settling back on Emrys. “Not intended, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m well aware of the rules against it.” 

“Which makes it even worse! How difficult is it to take precautions? How could you not follow through with such a basic measure?” His look moved between the both of them, equal in his accusations of negligence.

“Our former Warden Commander gave us some misinformation regarding Grey Warden fertility.” Malcolm sighed. “Combine that with the strange happenings at Sundermount, and, well. It happened, even though it never should have been able to, ever. At all. It isn’t like I’d wish this on her, and certainly not when you _look_ at her like you have been.”

So, Malcolm hadn’t missed Emrys’ judgmental looks, either. Looks far more powerful than Velanna’s had ever been. It still managed to take Líadan by surprise, sometimes, when she realized how observant Malcolm was, even though he didn’t let on as much. He was more forthright about it than Oghren, but not much more. 

“You do realize there are ways to ensure that the unwanted are not born?” Emrys asked.

Líadan wasn’t sure who her grandfather was asking, or if he would ever understand what it was like to want and not want a child you carried.

The fingers on both of Malcolm’s hands stretched outward, flexing to keep from curling into fists. Despite the outward calm he was projecting, Emrys’ words were getting to him. “Even when this child will likely be the only child of her own flesh and blood that she will ever bear?” asked Malcolm. “It was her choice and no one else’s for what she would ultimately decide. Seeing how the only blood left to her regards her, I’m not surprised she chose to keep her.”

Emrys opened his mouth, and then closed it forcefully enough that they heard his teeth click together. After a long stare at Malcolm, he shifted his gaze to Líadan. “A daughter?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze and refused to back down. At the same time, she asked the Creators that her grandfather not ask if the child was wanted, because Líadan still wasn’t entirely sure. She wasn’t certain she ever would be.

Warmth gentled Emrys’ features as he continued to look at her in a way quite different from before. “I remember when you were born.”

This was the grandfather she remembered from her childhood; this was who would prove dangerous to her if she allowed herself to become trusting like her child-self had been. “And I remember when I had a grandfather who loved me,” she said. “Funny, how our memories taunt us as they do, isn’t it?”

He frowned, though even then, the warmth did not disappear entirely. “You remind me too much of your father when you act this way. Nuada and I argued like this at every Arlathvhen after your mother joined the Mahariel for him.”

It was a point of contention Líadan had never understood as a child, and still did not understand as an adult. Dalish often left their birth clans to bond with elves in other clans and then join their bondmate’s clan. Otherwise, clans became too insular and ran the risk of everyone becoming related by blood, and blood relatives could not bond. Looking at it from what training she’d received from Keeper Marethari, Líadan couldn’t see anything wrong with what her parents had chosen. It was a good match, based on records, and yet Emrys had disagreed. “I don’t...” she started to say, and then stopped to glance behind her, where a small audience was beginning to gather. Oghren watched with unabashed interest, while the others, recruits and Wardens, made attempts at pretending not to pay attention when they very much were. Líadan returned to Emrys and Malcolm. “Maybe we should continue this conversation elsewhere.”

“Fine, ruin all the sodding fun,” said Oghren. “Best entertainment we’ve had around here in weeks and you didn’t even properly introduce us.”

“That’s because you were eavesdropping, Oghren,” said Malcolm.

Oghren raised a thick eyebrow. “Really? Looked to me like you were having a pissing match right on the doorstep. Doorsteps, last time I checked, were public places. I know this because the city guard tried to run me in for public indecency when I decided to piss on the arl of Redcliffe’s doorstep a couple nights ago. Not figuratively.”

Líadan held in a sigh. It was obvious enough that Emrys wasn’t going to be chased off easily or quickly, and she had no desire to engage in the rest of this argument with her grandfather with an audience in attendance. She indicated Emrys with her hand. “Oghren, this is Keeper Emrys of the Suriel clan, and he was also my mother’s father. Emrys, this is Oghren, a Grey Warden of Ferelden, by way of Orzammar.”

“Grandfather, aye?” asked Oghren.

He had a glint in his eye. Líadan did not like that particular glint; it did not indicate good things would be coming from Oghren’s mouth. 

Emrys took a wary step into the Warden compound, but did not cower. “Yes,” he said to Oghren after he looked around the main hall. 

Oghren nodded. “She’s a good one. Not many around, these days. You should be proud, elf.” With that, he spun and shouted at the rest of the recruits and Wardens gathered around. “All right, clear out, all of you. Give ‘em space. Stop gawking. You’ve seen Dalish elves before. You sodding live with one. Not polite to eavesdrop. Recruits, get to the training yard. The rest of you, either help train or find somewhere else to be.”

As Oghren herded people out of the room and down the hallway, Malcolm stared after him. “Who was that and what has he done with Oghren? Oh. Oh, wait, I think he’s sober. I forget he’s almost reasonable when he’s sober.” He shook himself and looked at Emrys. “Keeper, is there anyone else we should be expecting? Or did you come into the city alone?”

“I was accompanied by a First and his bondmate,” said Emrys. “They are waiting outside.”

Given that the guard had told her scouts had been sent out and reported no one else, Líadan wondered if their Silver Order scouts needed better training.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked over to the door. “They’re allowed in, if they want. The Wardens’ll stare at them less than folks in the streets will. And if you’ve got a First, he should probably be inside, anyway. The Chantry has Seekers and templars about, and I really wouldn’t want to see him picked up by an overzealous templar. I mean, we’d free him, but it would take a whole day of arguing, and that would be unpleasant.”

As Malcolm had continued to talk, the objections rising within Emrys, his chest puffing up a bit as he inhaled to say them, fell away at hearing the logic in Malcolm’s words. “You make a good point.”

Malcolm grinned at him, and Líadan pinched the bridge of her nose. Creators, he was trying to charm Emrys. It was a strength he and Alistair relied upon a lot, the inherent Theirin likability, but she truly did not believe it would work on Emrys. She was half afraid it would backfire, but she couldn’t exactly tell him to stop without making it obvious. So she chose to ignore it instead, and motioned for the befuddled guard to bring the other two Dalish inside. 

When Líadan saw Ariane walk through the opened door, she couldn’t help the smile. Ariane was a friendly Dalish face desperately needed as a counterpoint to Emrys’ not so friendly demeanor. Ariane let out a very un-hunter-like noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeal before dashing forward to wrap Líadan in a hug. 

Well. It seemed Ariane had taken quite well to being bonded. As Ariane marveled over Líadan’s size—because she really wanted to hear more about that—Oisín strode inside, eyes slightly rolling at Ariane’s reaction. However, he, too, was friendly. Nothing of the old Oisín she remembered from the ship and their travels around Highever remained. Bonding suited them both, apparently. “Not that I’m not happy to see you,” she said to Ariane, “but why are you here with Keeper Emrys?”

Ariane opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off by a scowling Emrys. “I will tell you once the human has left. He does not need to be here.”

To his credit, Malcolm said nothing, leaving the ultimate decision of what battle to pick with Líadan. On her part, she didn’t feel like losing any battle, no matter how minor the skirmish might appear. “Yes, he does.”

“He is not one of the People. He is of no consequence.”

She crossed her arms, inwardly wincing at how unthreatening it would look over her belly, and slightly lifted her chin. “So it shouldn’t matter to you that he’s here.”

He sighed and switched to Elvish. “Fine. I will speak in our tongue and it will be the same as if he were not here.”

Líadan didn’t bother telling him that Malcolm more than passably understood their language. 

Ariane knew, however, and asked Malcolm if he would show her and Oisín around. He grudgingly agreed, effectively ending the stalemate, and leaving the other two behind to have a talk long in coming. 

Once their footsteps faded away, Emrys walked a slow circuit around the main hall, studying the various murals and paintings, glancing at books scattered on the long tables, or on the bookshelves along the far wall. In the time the Wardens had resumed residence, the library had been filled, more tomes borrowed from the Palace’s intact library, and some borrowed by Wynne from Kinloch Hold to be used in teaching the Warden mages. Many of the books on magic tended to be left about in random places throughout the compound, misplaced by tired, reluctant students. In addition to the books and art, there were various sets of armor, shields, and other arms on display. A large hearth with a perpetual, crackling fire dominated the far end of the hall. Emrys spent a long time standing there staring into the flames. 

Then he said, “This is a very human home.”

Líadan had reached the end of her patience. She knew exactly how human this place was, yet she also knew how dwarven, and how city elven it was, as well. “Why are you really here?”

He turned, and his eyes on her were a disconcerting mix of concern and outrage. “ _Da’len_ , I came here to save you.”

She knew the term of endearment was being used to sway her, and not out of any latent affection. “If you had wanted to save me, then you would have taken me from the Mahariel after my mother and father died. In doing so, I would never have had the chance to stumble on the eluvian Tamlen and I found, killing him, and forcing me on the path of a Grey Warden. Since no one can go back in time, you’re more than a little late.” She would have easily gone with him in those cold days after her parents’ deaths. After losing her nerve at killing the other templars, her argument with Marethari, and burying her parents, she’d wanted nothing to do with the Mahariel anymore. Her place as a hunter had been in question, for those of the People who had the Gift were apprenticed to Keepers. Yet, those apprentices were often found to have the Gift when they were younger, between six and ten years. Not sixteen, as she had been. Not already as a new full hunter, as she had been. Her place had been in question, and leaving with her grandfather would have meant a more assured sense of belonging. 

Yet he hadn’t taken her. Hadn’t even offered. So she stayed.

“You needed the continuity of the clan you’d grown up in,” said Emrys. The outrage had faded from his voice, leaving behind concern of a kind that Líadan had heard often enough from Marethari. “That meant staying with the Mahariel, and not being taken away by a grandfather you barely saw more than at the Arlathvhen. You were already a full hunter. You had a place there, even as shaken as it was by your magic.” He frowned, eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Did you think I blamed you?”

Keepers were supposed to be the insightful ones. They were supposed to know these things before you did; it was how they were so good at dispensing advice. This went very especially so for Keeper Emrys of the Suriel, who was rumored to be almost as long-lived as Keeper Zathrian had been. Some Dalish thought his longevity due to the Suriel rarely coming into contact with humans. Any trade they did outside the Dalish, they largely conducted through the dwarves. As a result, so the thinking went, those of the Suriel clan were longer lived than even other Dalish clans. It had to have been another reason Emrys hadn’t agreed with his daughter’s match outside the clan, especially with a Mahariel. Unlike the Suriel, the Mahariel came into contact with humans quite a lot. As a result, their lives usually just a quarter longer than city elves. 

For an elf who’d been alive longer than Líadan could comprehend, Emrys seemed to understand very little of her situation. Frustration roiled through her at this man who should be able to grasp the basics he refused to see. “Of course I did! I was barely more than a child, new to the _vallaslin_ , and had only just discovered I had magic. Then the grandfather who said he would help if the Gift ever manifested scarcely even spoke to me. I had nothing left of my father, and you were all I had left of my mother. When you left without me, what was I supposed to believe?”

The confusion that stumbled through his expression was real enough. “I had thought Marethari would have explained.”

Líadan scoffed. “She isn’t much for explaining beyond vague and confusing most of the time.”

“I had not thought so back then, but perhaps I did not know her as well as I thought. What I heard of her and the Mahariel at the Arlathvhen was troubling.”

Admittedly, she was curious about her grandfather’s current opinion of her former Keeper, especially with the clan’s too-long stay at the base of Sundermount. “So they didn’t attend?” She’d had hopes, slim ones that the Mahariel would come around and return to themselves. A sign of doing so would have been attending the meeting of the Dalish clans.

“No. Lanaya did bring up their current state with the other Keepers, and the clans decided to send them halla and a new First, Oisín. He was chosen because Lanaya is young, and will have plenty of time to find and train a First for herself in the future. The Suriel volunteered to accompany them and the halla, so that I could speak with Marethari, myself.”

“If you thought to save me by returning me to them, it won’t happen.”

Emrys’ eyes widened in shock and more than a small touch of fear. “No. I wouldn’t want you to rejoin them as they are now. Sundermount is dangerous, far more dangerous than anyone realizes. Mages should not go there if they can help it. Truly, no one should.”

“I know.” Líadan could not keep the regret from her voice. “I wish I’d known sooner.”

Emrys had not been a well-respected Keeper for as long as he had by virtue of being unobservant. However thin the thread of regret in her words had been, he heard it. He frowned, and his scrutiny once more fell to her middle. “Is that how she came to be? Sundermount?”

The amount of kindness he showed, though she fought it, served to entice honesty from her. “If two Wardens could produce a child, it would take both young Wardens and the intervention of magic of some kind. With the Beyond so close, apparently even at the base of Sundermount, it is sufficient.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, where she could barely see the tips of her boots. “As we discovered.”

The room was quiet for a moment, save the pops from the fire and the far-off sounds of sparring. Líadan felt the penetrating gaze of her grandfather focused on her, and did not look up, too afraid to see her own misgivings reflected in his eyes.

“It isn’t a dalliance, is it?” The kindness had disappeared once more, something that happened too easily with Emrys. 

Líadan looked up sharply, the comfort she had _almost_ allowed herself to feel from her grandfather dropping away. Confrontation was better. Safer. “You’d like it to be, wouldn’t you?”

“Was it your choice?”

“Not exactly.” Yet, where she thought of fate and all they’d done to avoid what had grown between her and Malcolm, Emrys’ mind went elsewhere.

“And he is alive? You _stay_ with him?” His hand went to his stave. “Estranged or not, you are my granddaughter. I will tear that shem limb from—”

“What? No!” She quickly stepped in between Emrys and the hallway Malcolm had gone down. Then she placed her hand on his forearm to keep him from unslinging his stave. “He didn’t force me to do anything. Creators, I really don’t think he’s capable of that kind of thing. He didn’t force me to stay, and he did not force me to bear this child after we found out about her.”

Emrys gave her hand a gentle tug and lifted it off his arm. He didn’t let go, continuing to hold it in front of him as he spoke. “Then why? It cannot be for yourself. She will not be Dalish. She won’t even be _elvhen_.” 

Hearing her own doubts spoken out loud put her back on the defensive. She snatched her hand from his, unwilling to allow any sort of touch. Not when she was this vulnerable. Not when Emrys knew it and would certainly take advantage of it. “She’s all I’ll have from my own body.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “You have some years left. If you found a proper _elvhen_ man with whom to bond, this would not be your only opportunity if a child is something you wish.”

Now Líadan understood a little more why Malcolm got so frustrated about the pressure put on him regarding heirs. The pressure from her grandfather was quite similar. 

When she didn’t reply, Emrys continued to press his case. “It’s how I meant to save you. I would bring you to the Suriel, where at least for a short time, you could live as a true Dalish. Find a Dalish bondmate, have an _elvhen_ child or two, and hopefully pass along a full Gift.”

The Grey Wardens were her clan. They had been for nearly three years. She knew she could tell him that, but he’d never understand, not truly. Not enough to give up. Nor, she found, did she really care about him understanding. It was galling that he only now took an interest in her, in bringing her into his clan, instead of when she needed it. That need had been years ago, as a barely grown adult, still an adolescent, who had lost both her parents in a day of bloody violence. “You’re too late,” she told him.

His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth. “I can see that.”

“What you can so readily see isn’t what I was referring to.”

“Nor was I referring to your unborn child, whatever you might think.” He sighed. “I believe we should stop, before we say more we will regret. We will talk in a few days and try again. Perhaps we can at least come to an understanding, even if basic. I do see now that my decision to leave you with the Mahariel after the templars killed Gwenael and Nuada was in remiss.” 

Emrys paused for a moment, giving her space to respond if she wished, but Líadan said nothing. Only then did Emrys relax his posture and unfold his arms. “You should know, the Arlathvhen came to an accord regarding the Dalish who have become Grey Wardens, the ones like you, who cannot return to their clans save for a few short years near the beginning of being Wardens. The Dalish Wardens will be considered a kind of clan of their own, but without a Keeper, unless there happens to be a Keeper or First taken in your numbers.” His frown returned. “Because the Dalish Wardens must live a life so different from a normal Dalish existence, you will not be bound by the same rules. Exile will not be recommended or carried out for Dalish Wardens who take up with shemlen, but it still won’t be encouraged. That goes doubly so if a Warden carries the Gift in their line. If anything, as I am doing with you, it will be recommended that Wardens try to bond with another _elvhen_ and have a child within their first five years as a Warden.”

“I’m surprised the vote went that way.”

“It was a narrow margin, and there are still many who disagree with the decision, but they have stated they will abide by it. I include myself in those numbers. Because of the decision, I had wanted to reach you, to speak with you before you’d done anything else. I’d hoped Lanaya had been wrong, that I had misheard, but I see now that I had not. I am too late for many things.”

Whether Emrys was angry with her or himself, Líadan couldn’t tell. However, he was right. He was too late for her life to be lived in the way he wished. He was too late to help her live the life she had once wished for. “You are,” she said out loud.

He took in her answer to his statement without comment, choosing to ignore it. “Will you agree to speak with me again in a few days?”

Because he was her grandfather, Líadan knew she would be in remiss if she did not try. “Yes.”

He nodded. “Good. Now, if you wish to talk with me before I return, you may find me encamped with the Suriel clan, half a day to the north. You know the signs. I will go find Oisín and Ariane, and then take my leave. _Dareth shiral_ , granddaughter.”

Though Emrys stayed away as he’d said, the days that followed were no easier.

Líadan no longer wanted to sleep, for the demon had stolen her dreams. Yet whether she willed it or not, exhaustion drew her into the Beyond every evening. Each night, as she lay with her eyes wide open, in her head, she repeated the command to stay awake.

Inevitably, she found herself in the Beyond.

The demon always waited for her, but it was never polite enough to introduce itself until she figured it out. Nausea not from pregnancy or ill health filled her whenever she thought about when the time would come to pass that she would not recognize the dream for a dream and the demon would have her. She reminded herself of this before she fell asleep, girded it around her as armor, but it crumbled away each time.

The dreams were so _real_.

At the start, the demon had tried lives where she had never left the Mahariel. Where she and Tamlen had not found the eluvian, had not been tainted, had remained alive and Dalish hunters on a Thedas that never suffered the Fifth Blight. She bonded with Tamlen, she didn’t bond with Tamlen, she bonded with Fenarel— _that_ version lasted all of half a minute before she was onto the demon—or she bonded with no one. There were children and there were no children and only children, all _elvhen_. Her magic was weak and she remained a hunter, or her magic was strong and had been part of her since early childhood and she was Marethari’s First and not Merrill.

That dream was not successful, either.

Yet, even the unsuccessful dreams felt real. Everything smelled like her childhood, like a Dalish clan. The sounds, the feelings, the people of the clan alive and well and real. Only small details gave it away, or happening on a stray thought the demon would try to dissuade or chase away before she could latch onto it and break the dream. Then she would remember her true wishes, she would remember her real life, and wake up. Each morning, she felt more exhausted than she had when she’d gone to bed the night before, and she knew someone would eventually figure out something was wrong. 

She knew she should tell someone, but she didn’t want to, childish though she knew it was. Demons and spirits consistently plagued the weak-willed. They did bother stronger-willed mages, but generally only ones who had a strong connection to the Beyond, in order to make the challenge to possess the mage worth the bother of the attempt. Neither of those plagues had ever been hers to bear. Since she was not a strong mage, she believed that this demon must somehow believe her weak of will.

She was not weak. The demon would not have her; he would not have her daughter.

So he stole her dreams instead.

At first, like the other dreams, it was perfect, and she did not catch on. Her son and daughter, separated in age by barely a year, roamed through the clan’s encampment with a pack of the other similarly-aged children, terrorizing the younger adults while charming the elders. Fresh from a good hunt, she and Tamlen strode back into camp, Fenarel and Junar behind them, carrying a deer carcass between them. Apprentices scurried out to take the deer. Then they listened to directions on where the other deer had been cleaned, butchered, and tied up in trees to keep bears from getting them before the apprentices could bring them back to the camp. Then Tamlen clapped her on the shoulder before heading for his aravel and his bondmate, while Líadan sought out her own.

Though the son of a Keeper, Malcolm had trained up to a journeyman smith as he grew up in one of the clans that kept to the south. After the fateful Arlathvhen when he’d met Líadan, he’d joined the Mahariel as her bondmate. Master Ilen had taken Malcolm on as his own journeyman, and in the past years, the two men had worked very well together. She kept her approach quiet, her feet on the ground as silent as when she’d been on the hunt earlier, so that he wouldn’t notice her right away. In doing so, she would be afforded the chance to watch him at his work, a rare opportunity. Master Ilen saw her and gave her a wink while not betraying her presence. Malcolm worked the hammer and anvil with the day’s workpiece, the forge hot behind him. She realized he must have been working on something intricate, because his eyes were intent on shaping the metal. Usually, he’d have noticed her presence by now.

So she leaned against a nearby aravel and reveled in her chance to observe him in his element. Admire him, if she were honest with herself, admire his shoulders broadened by the smithy work, arms wrapped in muscles created through the same labor, and admire the skill and dexterity he showed as he formed the metal. If she watched for much longer, she would begin to contemplate trying for a third child. 

The hammering stopped and he grinned over at her, white teeth flashing through the lines of Dirthamen’s _vallaslin_ on his face. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, picking up the workpiece from the anvil with a set of tongs and then dropping it into a nearby bucket.

“Long enough to be debating whether or not I should drag you into our aravel right now,” she replied.

His grin grew wider and he considered the anvil in front of him. “Well, I suppose I could be done for the day.”

Ilen rolled his eyes. “Oh, go on. I’ll not suffer the moony eyes between you if you don’t. But if you get another child out of this, I expect them to be named after me, boy or girl.”

Líadan considered the possibility worth the sacrifice. Malcolm seemed to agree, for he put his tools away, gave instructions to an apprentice for what to do for the rest of the day, and then left the craftsmen’s area. His grin had yet to fade, and they barely managed to get the door of the aravel shut before she could no longer resist the urge to touch him. She traced the lines of muscle on the planes of his chest and abdomen, following the tracks where sweat had run from his work over the forge. He shivered then lunged forward to nip at her neck, his cheek smooth against her jaw. She countered by running her finger over the pointed tip of his ear—

Malcolm didn’t have pointed ears. Nor did he have a smooth jaw, for no matter how close he shaved, there was always a roughness from human stubble. 

Because Malcolm was human, and not _elvhen_ , and they did not live with the Dalish. And she was not standing in an aravel with her bondmate, but instead was rapidly approaching intimacy with a _demon_.

Líadan drew her hunting knife from its sheath on her thigh, and then stabbed the demon through the neck. It fell back, clutching at the grievous wound, but kept Malcolm’s form. She stumbled back from the scene, repeating over and over that it was a _spirit_ and _not Malcolm_ that she’d just stabbed. 

Then she woke up, her heart pounding like Malcolm’s hammer had on the anvil, her chest burning like she’d run after swift quarry during a hunt. At first, she observed with only her eyes, taking in her present to make sure it was no longer the Beyond. The room was the one she had at the compound, and its contents were the same. Satisfied thus far, she rolled enough to observe the man asleep beside her, and then reached out to trace his ears—rounded. Then her hand drifted to feel his cheek and jaw, the rasp of stubble a welcome sensation under her fingers. She continued downward to find a neck blessedly not wounded, and as the image from the dream returned, of Malcolm falling with hands clawing at his neck to hold the blood in, her hand slipped down to press against his chest, seeking the reassurance of a steady heartbeat.

She found it. Strong and sure and alive. 

Then a large, warm hand covered hers. “What’s wrong?” asked Malcolm.

Líadan pressed her lips together and shook her head. She couldn’t talk about it, even now. Not when she’d come so close to falling for the demon’s dream that she’d nearly bedded a demon in the midst of it. Then the demon had made her kill him while keeping the form of her bondmate. But her bondmate, not a demon, was alive and well in front of her, and she wanted to revel in the victory. With her free hand, she cupped the back of Malcolm’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. His response was immediate and strong, pressing her into the mattress as he opened his mouth to hers. As a final test, she shifted to flip them. The bondmate she knew and loved would go with it, even though he could prevent it by overpowering her if he wanted, but he never did so. This Malcolm allowed it as well, and Líadan tossed away any lingering doubts.

As she rode him, the familiarity of his touch was welcome, the sounds they both made comforting reminders of their connection. His hands settled onto the flare of her hips as they began to move faster, then he moved one hand to skim along her flat stomach up to—

No. It wasn’t flat. There was something missing, something that should be there, some _one_ and the memory started to slip out of her fingers and she chased it as her body determinedly chased release with her partner, and his hand had reached upward, beyond her stomach to caress—

 _No_. 

Their unborn daughter should be between them. Líadan flung herself back and away from Malcolm—a demon? A figment of her imagination? She tumbled from the bed, arms flailing behind her to catch herself, and hoped she would truly wake upon landing.


	52. Chapter 52

  
“Orana was brought to the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall at the age of five. Her mentors had high hopes for the child, seeing her talent for magic. 

Unfortunately, the poor child was plagued by nightmares that only worsened after her move to the Gallows.

Orana became afraid of falling asleep. She would lie stiffly in bed, her eyes wide open. Without sleep, she grew thin and wan, and her studies began to suffer. She began to experience waking dreams. Shadows flitted in corners, and she swore she heard voices calling her name.” 

—excerpt from _An Examination on Tranquility_

**Anders**

****Marian Hawke was in a foul mood. Anders could tell from the way she stomped into his clinic like an angry toddler, with her fists clenched at her sides as if she were liable to haul off and punch the next person who dared to say a word to her.

Anders kept his mouth shut, and then slowly lowered his head back down to pay attention to the poultices he was putting together. It would be safer for all of them if he waited for Marian to bring up whatever it was she wanted to discuss. Clearly, something was bothering her, but if he asked without being prompted, he would swiftly become the thing that was bothering her. In general, it was better to avoid being the person or thing vexing Marian.

“Isabela,” said Marian. “ _Isabela_.” She kicked a stray piece of the clean gauze Anders used to pack open wounds. When that didn’t suit her need for violent expression, she went after an empty bucket. She nodded in satisfaction when it cracked on impact with the wall.

Anders continued his work on the poultices. He kept his eyes on them as he mildly asked, “Did that bucket offend you?”

“Isabela!”

And Hawke continued to prove to Anders that she’d regressed to being a toddler. He withheld a sigh. “Yes, I realize Isabela can be offensive at times. What has she done now?”

“She left!”

Well, now she’d confused him. If Isabela had offended her, Isabela not being around would be a good thing, not an upsetting thing. He looked up from his work in order to see her better than out of the corners of his eyes. “What?”

Hawke’s hands went up in the air as she gave the bucket another solid kick, her sturdy boots sending it crashing into a pile of ceramic pots he used to store salves. “She left! She up and left. ‘Take care, sweet thing!’ and that was it. Wait, no. She left a _letter._ Some bloody bullshit reason about some sodding relic that she finally recovered and then had to leave because of it. Whatever that means.” Hawke slid down the wall next to the shattered remains of the ceramic pots, and then cradled her head in her hands. “I kind of liked having her around.” She flashed a grin at Anders, some of her old mischievousness replacing her anger. “She irritated Mother something fierce.”

“Well, that’s always a good reason to miss someone.” Granted, Anders would also miss Isabela, but for different reasons. That would explain her mysterious and sudden visit a couple nights ago, though he hadn’t complained about her presence and what followed. Justice had, but Anders had ignored him, even though Justice had gotten louder with his strident objections lately. Vengeance’s influence, Anders assumed, even though both he and Justice fought it. The pitiful and unjust plight of mages in Kirkwall hadn’t helped matters.

“Don’t be snide. It isn’t like you aren’t going to miss her, too. Well, for some different reasons than me, but miss her nonetheless.”

“Was your sole reason for dropping by just to rant at me about Isabela? Or was there something else?” Because he did have work to do, and he needed to get things done in the clinic before nightfall, when he’d promised to help the mage underground move some mages from the Gallows.

“Oh no, there’s more. So, do you remember me telling you about that peculiar elf-blooded apostate we tracked down some months ago?”

He frowned. “No, I don’t believe you told me.”

“Well!” Hawke got to her feet, her energy surging back. “A templar brought him to our attention, and his mother asked us to find him. The kid’s name is Feynriel. So, we go after him and find out he was taken by Tevinter slavers. We dispatched them, but then had to figure out what to do with this kid. My father always said mages needed teachers. While they didn’t have to come from the Circle, they had to be competent, because like any ability, magic is something that takes training to wield effectively and properly and not dangerously. So.”

Anders really didn’t like where this was going. Justice was practically jumping up and down at the implication. “And?”

“And Thrask volunteered to take him to the Circle and watch over him. Well, I mean, Thrask didn’t volunteer to take him, exactly. He seemed more in favor of the Dalish, but we couldn’t be sure of their cooperation. Once we decided on the Circle, Thrask said he’d watch over him as best he could. And, to his credit, he has, which brings us to the current dilemma.”

**_Slavery is unjust._ **

“While I commend you on rescuing him from slavery,” said Anders, “did you really send him to the Circle? In the Gallows?”

**_The Circle of Magi is not just._ **

****_Shut it. I know._

“Yes.” Hawke looked as if she wanted to glare at him, but resisted, though her eyes narrowed sightly. Then she sighed. “The other option would’ve been the Dalish.”

“Better than the Circle.” The Dalish turned out good mages, by and large, and without the drastic restrictions placed on them by the Chantry. 

Hawke gaped. “Have you _met_ Keeper Marethari? I wasn’t so sure. Merrill seemed sure, but she was exiled by Marethari, so I can’t exactly go on Merrill’s word, much as I’d like to. Anyway, he’s out of the Circle, helped to escape by Thrask. He was doing fine living in the Alienage, but something happened—and no one can seem to tell me what—and now Feynriel is trapped in some sort of dream-state. Also probably besieged by demons at the same time. Thrask has no idea why he’s stuck dreaming, neither does Merrill, and neither do I.”

“And?” He certainly wasn’t going to advocate returning the boy to the Circle for a second time.

“His mother wants us to rescue him.”

“What mother wouldn’t?” Why he was being quite this difficult, he couldn’t rightly say. He had a suspicion it was more Justice’s influence than his, but he couldn’t be certain. 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Will you help or not?”

“Clean up the mess you made while I finish these poultices, and I will.”

Hawke opened her mouth to object then followed Anders’ gaze over to the useless bucket, the smashed pots, and the salve oozing from them. She closed her mouth and nodded. “All right, fine. Deal.”

Within the hour, the two of them headed out of Darktown for the Alienage. As they walked through Lowtown, Anders dislike the quiet. It gave him too much time to think freely about his actions, and it gave Marian too much time to work up her temper. That, and he’d noticed she seemed to be missing a certain Chantry brother who’d been constantly at her side as of late. “Where’s that fellow of yours? Andraste-crotch?”

“He hates it when you call him that,” said Marian. Her tone was pitched to sound annoyed, but the smile curling at the corner of her mouth said otherwise. “He said it sounds like some sort of disease, like the itch people pick up at the Blooming Rose.”

“He said it, not me.” Anders chuckled at the idea. It _did_ sound like a disease that would run rampant at the city’s most reputed brothel. “Besides, if he stopped wearing that ridiculous belt buckle, I’d find something else to call him. But so long as Andraste remains perched above his crotch, Andraste-crotch it is.”

“His father commissioned that armor for him. Considering his father is dead, he’s rather attached to it still.”

“Oh, well done, making me feel like an insensitive ass.”

“Stop being an insensitive ass and I wouldn’t have to point it out to you, like rubbing a puppy’s nose in a mess it made. Besides, you shouldn’t be one to talk about another man’s choice in clothing.” Marian ruffled the feathers on his pauldrons, then plucked one and held it in front of his face as evidence. “These are just as ridiculous as Andraste’s face on a belt buckle. Honestly, you should consider getting rid of them. If anything shouts ‘apostate!’ it’s feathers. Scary apostates, too. Witches of the Wilds scary.”

Anders pretended to brush dust off his pauldrons. “I like my feathers.”

“And Sebastian likes Andraste.”

“Yes, but I don’t go around wearing my feathers on my crotch—you know what, we’ll just stop there before this conversation goes any further south than it already has.” He paused for a moment, and then asked, “So, does Sebastian still like Andraste more than you?”

Marian sighed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Anders slung a friendly arm around her shoulders, ignoring Justice’s flailing over diversions from the missions truly deserving of their time and efforts, specifically the enslaved mages. He ignored the spirit because he was not a man to abandon his friends, and Justice had already forced him to abandon his friends once. If he could help it, he would not do so again. “Come on, tell the healer your troubles. I’m good at listening.”

She relaxed slightly. “He won’t make up his mind whether or not to retake Starkhaven, even after that business with the Harrimans. Every time I think I’ve convinced him, he changes his mind overnight, while still professing how he feels about me.” She glanced cautiously up at Anders. “Want to hear a bit of blasphemy?”

“Oh, I’m always up for blasphemy. Lay it on me.”

“There are times when I think I understand how Maferath must have felt. He tells me that he cares for me, pledges himself to me, and then the next thing I know, he’s going on about how he swore vows to take only Andraste as his bride. Yesterday, I found him in the Chantry, arguing with Grand Cleric Elthina about retaking his vows. She wasn’t letting him because she didn’t believe his heart was truly in it. He tried to make his case, but she gave up. When she saw me, she asked me to talk some sense into him. I tried, but it might take a sturdy stick to get through his thick skull.”

“Good for Elthina for seeing through his prattle.” Anders believed the Grand Cleric had some sense in her, however much she refused to take sides and curb Meredith’s zealotry. 

**_The Grand Cleric does nothing to stop injustice. This makes her as unjust as the Knight-Commander. She is an unworthy servant of the Maker._ **

****_She’s_ human _. I know you don’t believe me, but being human isn’t a bad thing. She’ll come around. Meredith and her ilk are becoming too bold and too obvious in their atrocities for Elthina to allow it to continue._

**_If she does not act, we will have to._ **

****_Not today._

When Justice didn’t answer, Anders refocused his attention on his friend. “And Sebastian’s line about vows of Andraste as his only bride is useless. He renounced his vows, those ones included. Maybe he’s just afraid and can’t see his fear.”

Marian’s shoulders tensed. “He should fear me is what he should fear if he keeps leading me on.”

“Since your actual brother is busy being a templar, you want me to beat him up?”

“Tempting, but no.” She put her arm around his waist to give him a quick side-hug. “Thank you for listening. I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep my head on straight lately.”

“Drag Sebastian into your mansion and have your way with him, I imagine.”

“That might not be such a bad idea.” Marian tapped at her chin and hummed. “All right, you need to change the subject or I might forget Feynriel entirely in favor of executing your second plan.”

As much fun as it would be to watch the ensuing drama, Anders knew that both Marian and Sebastian needed more time, so he did as she requested and changed the subject to one he’d been wanting to discuss anyway. “Have you heard from Bethany recently?”

The question brought an immediate scowl to her face. “Not a word. I think it hurts Mother the most, after she’s written so many letters. Carver’s written to her, too, and he hasn’t heard a thing. Not even a short missive in all capital letters telling him he’s a prat for joining the templars. Did you know she cast an itching spell on his trousers before she left with you and the Wardens? Carver spent the rest of the day scratching. At first, he tried to be subtle, but it reached the point where he stopped caring and just scratched openly. I know she’s mad at him, and Maker knows she’s mad at me for encouraging her to join the Wardens, but I didn’t think she’d be so mad so as to cut us off. I mean, I know Wardens have a thing against friends and family, but I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“Some people like cutting all ties to their old life when they join the Wardens,” said Anders. “It isn’t mandatory, and some people keep all their old links alive. I think Bethany just... I don’t think being a Warden was something she envisioned for herself, which means she’s probably still adjusting. She’ll come around. It suits her more than she thinks.” Mostly, being a Grey Warden would give Bethany the chance to use her magic to her full ability, to stretch and flex mage powers she’d thus far rarely used to their full extent. Considering Bethany’s potential, thus far her talents had been squandered. In the Wardens, her talents would not be wasted. And with the Fereldan Wardens in particular, she would be a person, as well, not just another Warden. It would be a far better existence than remaining in Kirkwall would have been. Bethany would just have to get past the bitterness first.

“I just miss my sister,” said Marian.

He nodded. “I think I understand. When I came here to do the work asked of me, I left behind Wardens who were the nearest people I had to siblings. I miss them, at times.”

“You could write them, you know.”

“No, better not. I can’t imagine it going over well. They’re quite angry with me, not that I blame them.”

“You haven’t told me much about your life as a Warden before you came to Kirkwall.”

He gave her a half-smile. “No, I haven’t.”

Her eyes flicked to the rapidly approaching open gates of the Alienage, where Merrill stood, wringing her hands. “Duty calls, but this conversation isn’t over. My little sister lives with those friends of yours. I’d like to know more about them.”

“We’ll see.”

“Oh! What are we seeing?” Merrill asked.

Marian gave the elf a bright smile. For some reason, Merrill was always able to elicit that reaction from her; Anders found himself strangely envious of it. “Anders promised to tell me about the Fereldan Wardens he left behind. I need to know what sort of people my baby sister is hanging around with,” said Marian.

Merrill raised an eyebrow. “Did he? Did mention that I know at least one of the Wardens there? One of the heroes of the Blight, Líadan. We grew up in the same clan.”

“Is she nice?”

“Yes! Oh, wait. Maybe.” Merrill frowned. “Sometimes. It, well, you have to know her. She means well. Usually.”

Anders laughed softly. For all it seemed not to be, Merrill’s description was surprisingly accurate. 

“So what happened to Feynriel?” Hawke asked Merrill, switching to full seriousness. “Did he go to sleep and not wake up? Did he collapse? Get hit on the head? What?”

Merrill began to wring her fingers again. “He looked at my mirror.”

Hawke stared at her. “Your mirror.”

“His reflection scared him so bad that he fainted?” asked Anders. From what he’d heard—and had seen with his own eyes—elf-blooded folk tended to the rather attractive side of the spectrum. For one of them to faint from their own reflection seemed preposterous, yet amusing at the same time. 

“It... doesn’t reflect,” said Merrill. 

Hawke’s lips pursed in annoyance. “Not sure if you’re aware of this, Merrill, but that’s not usually how mirrors work. Mirrors reflect things. That’s the point of them. Otherwise, they’re just pieces of glass.”

“It’s not a mirror, not exactly. It’s called an eluvian.”

Anders stared at her. “Say that again?”

Merrill’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Eluvian?”

So he had heard correctly. His mouth kept opening and closing at the ridiculousness of how far and wide they’d traveled looking for Morrigan and an intact eluvian, only to discover now that they’d been so close at one point. “We spent _months_ traipsing around Thedas, searching for one of those things, and you had one here in Kirkwall all along?” And he was the one who’d told Malcolm to avoid Kirkwall, to boot.

“It’s just pieces, really. I haven’t gotten them together properly, not yet. I’m missing something. A tool, maybe. I’ve been studying the pieces and trying to figure it out. Feynriel saw a shard I was examining on my table, and that night was when Arianni said he went to sleep and never woke up.”

“What was he doing out of the Circle in the first place?” asked Hawke.

Merrill shrugged. “I’m not sure. Ser Thrask brought him is what Arianni told me, but she didn’t say anything else about it. It’s been two days since he’s gone to sleep.” She glanced over her shoulder. Anders and Marian followed her gaze to see Arianni standing at the base of the vhenadahl, watching them as she folded and unfolded a small piece of paper in her hand. “Maybe we should talk to Arianni about it? She’s very anxious.”

**_She should be. Her son is besieged by demons. He will not last much longer without aid._ **

****_And how exactly can we aid him?_

**_You must find a way into the Fade._ **

****_That sounds far too much like a Harrowing for my liking._

****Anders wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea for him to go into the Fade accompanied by anyone else, or at all, really. Either Justice would take over control in the Fade, or worse, Vengeance would oust them both. There was also the little problem of him having not told Marian—or anyone else—about Justice. Mostly because he liked keeping his head on his shoulders and his heart not impaled by a steel blade. However, he’d really worry about the Fade once the option became a viable one. They hadn’t enough lyrium or mages to send anyone into the Fade like a Harrowing. The only other way was blood magic, and while Merrill practiced it, she only ever used her own blood, and sending just one person into the Fade using that method would mean draining all her blood, essentially forcing them to trade one life for another.

**_Blood magic is wrong_.**

****_Depends on how you use it._

**_It does not matter. It is wrong._ **

****_Not everything is as black and white as you believe._

**_You are wrong._ **

****_Look, if it came to Merrill using blood magic to save us from darkspawn or allowing the darkspawn to slaughter us, I’m choosing the blood magic._

**_It would be the first step down a dark path._ **

****_You know, for a Fade spirit, you’re seriously lacking in perspective._

“Anders?” Hawke was asking, jarring Anders from his internal conversation.

“Sorry, I was mulling over the situation,” said Anders, realizing they’d managed to walk into the Alienage and stood with Arianni during the time when he’d been focused on Justice. He’d been so intent on the internal spirit that he hadn’t even noticed what his body was doing externally. Well, _that_ couldn’t be good. He hoped Hawke hadn’t noticed. “What were you saying?”

“Arianni said that Marethari will be here shortly to perform an ancient Dalish ritual she thinks might help. But Marethari said the ritual will require at least one additional mage, and it has to be a person Feynriel trusts. Apparently, Feynriel trusts me, even though I sent him to the Circle.”

“You said it, not me,” said Anders. Why anyone would trust the person who sent them to the Circle, especially the Gallows, he’d never know. Nearby, Merrill sniffed at Hawke mentioning Marethari and her Dalish magic. What was that about? He really needed to pay more attention to the goings-on and less attention on the needy spirit sharing his body. 

Hawke gave him a flat look. “Yes, I did.” Then she sighed and gestured toward one of the doors in the wooden tenements toward which Arianni was already walking. “Come on. Arianni invited us to wait inside until Marethari arrives. I figured you might want to look in on Feynriel, with you being a healer and all.”

She was right; he did. 

However, on examination, Feynriel proved to be asleep and actively dreaming. Beyond that, Anders couldn’t tell what was going on, and Justice wasn’t offering up any ideas. What did surprise Anders was how elven the young man looked, which wasn’t something he’d known could happen with elf-blooded humans. He mentioned it out loud to Merrill, who’d accompanied him into the small side room, while Hawke spoke in low tones with Arianni in the larger common room. “Looks a lot more elf-like than the other elf-blooded humans I know,” Anders said after Merrill didn’t comment.

That got her to reply. “You know many elf-blooded humans for sure, do you?”

Two, Anders thought, but he couldn’t say either one of them out loud. While he had no problems divulging Circle secrets, others he would take with him to his pyre. “Well, I know one. Feynriel looks practically elven. The elf-blood human I know, I can’t think of a single physical trait of his that’s even remotely elven.” He’d taken note of Malcolm’s better night vision and hearing, somewhere halfway in between human and elven, but that was it. He’d looked absolutely nothing like Fiona.

“Oh,” said Merrill, “Feynriel’s probably got elven blood on both sides.”

Anders frowned. “But I thought the children of elves and human are human.”

“Well, they are. They appear so, anyway, mostly. But get enough elven blood in there—that part doesn’t go away, it just doesn’t show, but the power in the blood is always there—get enough in it, and there’s more elf than human. That’s when it’ll start to make itself known. The ears never win out, but other physical features do. Magic reappears a lot in those circumstances. Magic runs through all of the People, though some much stronger than others. Not all of the People are mages, not anymore. But we all have the potential to pass it on. It’s just more obvious and of course stronger when one of the People who have manifested the Gift also pass it on. Of course, then it’s really frowned upon for those elves to have elf-blooded human children, because then their magic is given to the humans instead of the People.”

Suddenly, Anders was really glad he hadn’t mentioned Líadan’s condition to Merrill or Marethari. Before he could inquire further—because he really hoped words Merrill had so mildly spoken wouldn’t end up a true condemnation of his friend—Hawke poked her head through the open doorway. 

“It’s getting to be sunset,” she said. “Marethari’s supposed to be here anytime now.”

By the time they got outside the front door, Keeper Marethari was stepping through the entrance of the Alienage. The city elves seemed to think the appearance of a Dalish Keeper merited a hushed, respectful silence and showing a lot of deference with bows. It astonished him, really. He’d heard more stories about city elves hating the Dalish, and the Dalish doing the same. Velanna had been a fine example of that. Then again, Líadan had provided a decent counter-example, so he couldn’t be sure which rumor was more true. The Keeper barely acknowledged the bowing elves as she headed for the vhenadahl in the middle of the main courtyard of the Alienage. She touched the tree, and then slowly turned to gaze at the blue fire from a clay pot near the tree. On seeing it, her serene look turned vaguely disdainful, almost disgusted, and Anders really wondered what that meant. Marethari had seemed comfortable enough with the Alienage, at least up until she’d seen that light. Not that he’d ask her. He wasn’t afraid at all to say that the Keeper scared him. Her magic was quite strong, he could feel that, and he’d witnessed enough of the non-argument arguments she and Líadan had had when they’d visited the clan. He had no intention of wrangling with any of that.

**_You choose wisely._ **

****_It happens on occasion. Don’t tell anyone._

Arianni motioned them inside her home. Once inside, Marethari wasted no time delivering her grave assessment of Feynriel’s predicament. Anders listened with rapt attention, as did Justice, as Marethari explained the concept of Dreamers, and magic that hadn’t been successfully witnessed in two Ages. It was a magic rare and incredibly powerful; human mages who could enter the Fade at will. Once there, those mages could shape dreams and cause effects felt beyond the Veil, something normally only Fade spirits could do. No _wonder_ the boy was plagued by demons.

**_Yes. They seek the boy’s power._ **

****_I can almost understand it. The things that could be done with such an ability are innumerable._

**_Should a demon possess him, they would be unstoppable. The boy must be rescued, taught to resist demons, and learn control of his power, or he must be killed to prevent such an occurrence._ **

****_I think it best we opt for the teaching him to use his skills path instead of outright death._

**_There is also the option of separating him from the Fade entirely._ **

****_What? You mean like the tranquil? He’d probably rather die. I know I would. Being stripped of your emotions and agency is no way to live at all._

**_I merely offered an option._ **

****_You know, the Chantry thinks it a fine option._

**_The Chantry is unjust. Therefore, tranquility is unjust. There must be another way._ **

Fascinating, how quickly Justice backpedaled if any of his ideas matched up with the Chantry’s ideas. Not that Anders was arguing with this one. The act of making anyone tranquil _was_ unjust. 

Hawke and Marethari had continued their conversation as Anders had conversed in his head. When Anders resumed paying attention, he learned that their conversation was more Hawke asking questions and Marethari sort-of answering them. Hawke did seem to have the ability to get better answers out of Marethari than most.

“The abilities of a Dreamer can be devastating,” Marethari was telling Hawke. “The Tevinter somniari often entered the minds of sleepers in order to slay them in their dreams. Their deaths in the Beyond were permanent on Thedas, as well, unlike normal dreams. Dreamers can do whatever they wish while in the Beyond. The more skilled they are, the more their control over the Beyond approaches that of the strongest spirits.”

“Maker,” Hawke said under her breath. Then she asked, “All right, so we need to rescue him from the demons who basically want to eat him and absorb his power. How exactly do you propose we accomplish this? Simply going to sleep and hoping for the best in the Fade when we start to dream isn’t going to cut it, and the only other two ways I know of to get someone into the Fade at-will involve either large amounts of lyrium or large amounts of blood. I’m not willing to obtain the blood, and I haven’t the lyrium.”

“There are old Dalish magics that can do the same, spells relayed from the time when all of the People were Dreamers. We will have to use this place, Feynriel’s childhood home, as a focus to draw him through the Veil and back to the mortal realm.” Marethari’s eyes moved to the doorway of Feynriel’s small room. “I would like your help as I begin to prepare.”

Hawke studied the Keeper for a long moment before slowly nodding. “All right.” 

As the two women stepped through the doorway, Anders noticed Merrill’s faint scowl out of the corner of his eye. It was odd to see; Merrill wasn’t one for frowning, much less scowling. Even when they fought darkspawn or Tal-Vashoth or clueless back alley gangs in the city, Merrill really never seemed angry. Sad, yes. Happy, yes. Pitiful, at times, but Anders suspected that was more to do with her eyes than anything. 

“She uses old Dalish magic for him, when he’s a half-breed, and refused for me.” Her bitterness sharpened the tone of her statement, making it loud enough that not only did Anders hear it, but he couldn’t even pretend he hadn’t.

“Maybe she thinks he’s far more of a danger to Thedas unaided, unlike you,” he said. “Sure, you’re a blood mage. But him? He’s a Dreamer. I think I knew someone with that ability.”

Her large eyes blinked away the lingering disappointment and hurt to regard him in confusion. “How is that possible? Keeper Marethari said it’d been hundreds of years since the last surviving Dreamer.”

“Flemeth.”

Her eyes opened impossibly wider. “ _Asha’belannar_?”

“Well, they did spend the greater part of a year chasing a friend of mine through the Fade, changing and manipulating dreams at will. Sounds an awful lot like a Dreamer to me. Or maybe she’s the most powerful abomination ever to walk on Thedas. Or both. I don’t know. Flemeth is... Flemeth. Maybe there’s no other explanation.”

“I wonder if she’s one of the People.”

He shrugged. “She can turn into a dragon, I know that much. Not sure if that’s one of your lost Dalish magics, but there it is. Oh, or she’s a dragon who can turn into what looks like a human.”

**_I know not what she is_.**

****_I supposed it would have made things too easy if you did know._

Merrill’s fingers danced along her stave as she bit her lower lip in thought. Then she said, “She could be a god. There are legends.”

“Oh? Do tell.” The Dalish really did have a number of good stories. He’d rather enjoyed listening to them on the evenings during his visit with the Mahariel when he’d been with the Fereldan Wardens. Justice was curious, as well.

The smile she gave him when she looked up was half sad and half mischievous. “You never want to hear my stories.”

All right, so perhaps he’d cut her off mid-story—or even sooner—a hundred times too many, but every one of those times had been during incredibly inopportune moments. But still. This one could be about _Flemeth_. He was sold. “I do this one,” he said to Merrill.

“Maybe I’ll tell you about the deerhounds instead.”

She said it so mildly that Anders had the distinct feeling she was doing this on purpose.

**_I am inclined to agree._ **

****He looked down at the elf again, and her eyes were bright on him as she smirked. Anders’ impression of Merrill began to take on a very new light. She was most decidedly not the clueless, naïve young woman she presented herself as.

**_How else do you believe she has outwitted the pride demon?_ **

****Anders said nothing to Justice, since Justice was right. If he acknowledged that, Justice wouldn’t gloat, not exactly, but his personality would take on an air of smugness that was intolerable. He wasn’t given a chance to address the issue, because Hawke ducked out of the bedroom to beckon them in.

“The Keeper is ready to begin,” she said to them.

When they entered, Marethari immediately addressed Merrill, her expression grave. “You cannot go, _da’len_.” 

Merrill froze in mid-step. “What? What do you mean?”

“You are a blood mage, and this puts you in greater danger from the spirits of the Fade. The spirits eager to be after you would only add to the difficulty Hawke and Anders will face with the spirits pursuing Feynriel. You must remain here.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.” Just noticing that her foot still hung in midair, Merrill put it down on the floor. “And there are not multiple spirits after me. Just a single spirit of pride. Humans call them pride demons.”

“Which makes it all the more dangerous,” Anders found himself saying, unsure if it had been he who’d felt compelled to speak, or Justice. “If you turned on us, while trying to battle a pride demon, it would be that much harder. You’re already very powerful here. I can’t imagine how that must be multiplied in the Fade, and then add a pride demon and possibly other demons into the mix? We’d be as good as dead.”

Her astonished look of betrayal she fixed on him nearly broke his resolve. Merrill did have a very strong will. But Anders had very vivid memories of what had happened to Velanna at Highever, and had no wish to repeat it. He didn’t want to see any of them dead, and that included Merrill. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” he said.

**_I would not trust her._ **

****_She hasn’t turned on us yet, and she probably wouldn’t. Now is just a bad time to gamble over it. Not with Feynriel’s life already at stake._

**_She uses blood magic. Her betrayal is only a matter of time._ **

_And just what happened to the compliments about her strength of magic and will?_

**_They were not compliments; they were statements of fact. Her strength lengthens the amount of time it will take for her to fall prey to a demon. Yet fall, she will._ **

****Anders decided not to address Justice’s rather negative assessment of the situation, and kept talking to Merrill. “Look, I’m not sure my objections are even really about you. It has to do with my experiences. Before, when I was with the Fereldan Wardens, there was a situation where a few mages had to go into the Fade to rescue a trapped non-mage. I went, accompanied by a Warden who’d been a Keeper’s First, as well as another healer. We managed to guide the non-mage out, despite the amount of demons that occupied the part of the Fade we’d traveled to. Once we freed him, we woke up. Well, I woke up, and the healer, Wynne, woke up. The third mage... she wasn’t herself anymore when she stirred. A pride demon had found her, and she’d taken the deal. A templar had to kill the abomination she’d become before it could kill the rest of us.”

The images briefly took over Anders’ field of vision, of Alistair hesitating in drawing his sword to use it on Velanna, of Greagoir’s near-instant response of plunging his sword through Velanna’s heart, and the heartfelt look of regret that passed through the old templar’s eyes afterward. Greagoir had very much _not_ relished the slaying of a being that had once been a promising mage and Warden. Out of duty, and to protect others, he’d killed the abomination, but Greagoir had spoken later of how he regretted that it had come to that, that his actions and the actions of others previous to that moment had driven Velanna to the deal.

That had been the first time Anders had realized that some templars were just as human as any mage. Some were good, some were bad, like any other person.

He shook his head to clear the stubborn memory.

“What was her name?” Merrill asked quietly.

“Velanna. She was... I don’t remember which clan she’d belonged to, and hers wasn’t a pretty story, either. She volunteered to join the Wardens, unlike pretty much every other Dalish elf who’s become a Warden.”

Merrill’s brown furrowed. “Why would she do that?”

“She was exiled from the Calliel after an argument with her Keeper led her to take a splinter group from the clan in pursuit of false adversaries,” said Marethari.

The bright flash of Merrill’s determination faded. “I’ll wait outside with Arianni.” Without another word, her shoulders slightly drooping, she left the small room.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Hawke cleared her throat and looked at Anders.  “It’s not you, it’s me?” she asked him.

“I couldn’t think of a better way to phrase it.”

“Time is of the essence,” said Marethari, who had only just shifted her sad gaze from the open doorway to the other two conscious people in the room. “Let us begin before we are too late.”


	53. Chapter 53

  
“Orana knew demons could take advantage of her vulnerable state, and at the tender age of eleven, she requested to be made Tranquil. The First Enchanter complied.

With her connection to the Fade severed, Orana was again able to sleep. Her health returned, and she was at peace with her decision. She continued her education at the Circle and excelled in enchanting and runecrafting.

Orana saw the Rite of Tranquility as a gift, although many mocked her for this view. ”

—excerpt from _An Examination on Tranquility_

**Anders**

The moment Anders opened his eyes in the Fade, he realized that he was not the one doing the opening. In Justice’s realm, it was Justice who came pushing and shoving to the forefront, almost fully taking control of Anders’ body. 

Anders felt very small and very panicked at the loss of his agency. After this little field trip was over, he would need to do some serious research to figure out how to get Justice back into the Fade on his own or into another welcoming host body, if that were even possible. It frightened Anders badly enough now, with Justice in control, that he couldn’t even fathom what would happen if Vengeance pushed them both aside. 

No, he knew what would happen. He, Anders, would cease to exist.

Well, he couldn’t let it happen. Simple as that.

**_You must turn your attention to current matters_.**

****_You’re the one in control of the limbs. Also the neck and the head-turning bit, and the part where you get to decide where the eyes point. My attention can go anywhere. You’re the one who needs to physically mind the attention, and also the world outside. As a note, Hawke is standing right in front of you... us... me..._ whatever _, and she doesn’t look happy._

Justice didn’t acknowledge Anders’ words, which gave Anders a taste of what he did to Justice multiple times a day. Instead, Justice inhaled a long, deep breath before expelling it, limbs relaxing with relief and contentedness as he did so. Only then did he turn his attention to a puzzled and mildly alarmed Hawke. “I had not thought to return in such a way. It is good to feel the breath of the Fade, not the empty air of your world.”

“Anders, you didn’t seriously become possessed between going to sleep and waking up here, did you? That honestly might be either a record or a really horrible trick. Please tell me it’s a trick.”

 _Please do_.

“I am Justice,” said Justice, who apparently had no sense of humor or self-preservation whatsoever. “Anders did not tell you of me?”

 _Because I didn’t want her to_ kill us _, you dolt._

Hawke’s gaze became hooded and wary. “No, I think I would have remembered one of my best friends being an abomination.”

Had Anders had control of his body, he would have jumped. He’d had no idea how close a friend Hawke considered him. Now that he did, he felt like a right ass for not mentioning Justice sooner. Oh, wait, no, he didn’t feel like an ass about it because it would be even more of a jerk move to make his friend kill him for being an abomination. 

Speaking of killing, Hawke had tensed, and her hand inched closer to her sword. He honestly couldn’t blame her for wanting to kill him. It’s what you did when faced with a mage or anyone, really, who was possessed by a spirit or demon of the Fade. You generally had to or risk them killing you in a highly unpleasant manner. Yet, while he didn’t fault her for the instinct, he really didn’t particularly want to die.

_Justice, you might want to watch out. Her sword hand is getting itchy._

**_Then she should use a salve._ **

****_Not that kind of itchy. I mean she wants to kill me. You. Us._

**_Nonsense. That would be unwise. I am powerful here in the Fade and can guide her._ **

****_If you think you can help Hawke, you’d better start talking, because she’s liable to start swinging that sharp sword of hers at any moment._

“Come,” Justice said to Hawke. “I sense Feynriel’s mind straining. We do not have much time to find him.” Without waiting to confirm that Hawke was either going to follow him or kill him, Justice set out for the section of the Fade where Feynriel was trapped by demons. When they weren’t immediately felled by a blade in the back, yet he could hear footsteps behind them—him?—Anders figured Hawke must’ve opted for helping Feynriel first before coming to a final sort of decision about what to do with him. So, he and Justice would have to prove themselves incredibly sodding useful so Hawke wouldn’t want to kill them. The first thing would be to make sure they weren’t tempted by any offers made by demons.

Anders needn’t have worried.

With Justice in control, the demons didn’t even bother with him. A few made appeals directly to Anders. Those offers had Hawke giving him wary looks, like she expected him to turn on her at any moment. And when he did not, when he yet again rejected a demon’s offer, she did nothing to hide her shock.

Honestly. It wasn’t like the demons had decent offers. Besides, he already shared his mortal body with Justice. There simply wasn’t _room_ for another. 

Hawke showed remarkable strength of will. The demons offers to her had been far more enticing: bringing her father back to the living, convincing the Chantry brother to pick her instead of Andraste—that had been Anders’ favorite, especially the part where the desire demon took Sebastian’s form—or bringing her sister back to Kirkwall, untainted and not a Grey Warden.

She rejected all of them, declaring each decision by killing the demon who offered it. Both Justice and Anders highly approved.

Eventually, they got to Feynriel, who was being harassed by a pride demon. The demon had taken on Keeper Marethari’s form, and she was praising Feynriel—who was now fully elven—for his work for the People. “I know she’s a demon,” Feynriel said when he realized they were there in his dream and not one of the other members of the Mahariel clan. “I have to see my way out of this. Now that you’re here, I’m entirely sure. So just give me a moment.” The demon struck out, knocking Feynriel flat on his back quite a few feet away from where he’d been standing. He gave them a quick, sheepish look. “All right, maybe two moments.” Then he jumped up and strode right back toward the pride demon, who’d given up the appearance of being Marethari.

“What do we do?” Justice asked Hawke.

She shrugged. “Wait, I suppose. The goal is for him to begin mastery of his abilities, start to shape the Fade, recognize demons, and resist them. We’re just here to lead him home.”

“Just another moment, I swear,” said Feynriel. Already, the Fade was shifting around them. The demon bellowed as it collapsed and turned to dust, and then the dreamscape it had created was replaced by the Gallows courtyard.

“Fascinating choice,” said Justice.

“It’s been my home for months.” Feynriel shot Hawke a hefty glare. 

“Hey! You find a decent instructor outside the Circle and I won’t make you go back. Or, if you hate the Gallows—and no one can blame you if you do—we could see about sending you to another Circle. Starkhaven’s out, but Ferelden is a possibility.”

“It is still a Circle of Magi,” said Justice. “It is run by the Chantry. Therefore, it is not an option.”

 _But not so bad, as Circles go_.

Justice ignored him. Anders felt mildly hurt.

Feynriel jerked his chin toward Anders. “What’s with him? Spirit you picked up along the way? They do require watching, but definitely aren’t like demons.”

“That’s Anders, actually,” said Hawke. “The spirit healer I told you about when I last visited you in the courtyard. Turns out he’s got a passenger he neglected to mention.”

It wasn’t like that sort of thing came up in everyday conversation. ‘How’s the weather? Hotter than the forges of Orzammar around here. Oh, by the way, I might technically be possessed by a spirit of justice.’ It wasn’t something one just brought up. You had to work up to it, or avoid the subject forever, because even hints of possession often led to a painful death.

“I thought the spirits who aided spirit healers returned to the Fade straight after,” said Feynriel.

“Oh, they do.” Hawke gave Anders the side eye before she turned to Feynriel. “But enough about him. We’ll get to him later.”

Anders did _not_ like the sound of that.

Meanwhile, Marian continued to speak with Feynriel. “This is about you. What’s it going to be? Learn to master your abilities? Or remain demon bait? I’ll be up front with you: choosing demon bait means I have to kill you here, and because you’re a Dreamer, it’ll make you tranquil out there. I really don’t prefer that option, but even you have to agree than an abomination with your particular skill set, well.” Hawke shrugged a shoulder. “You’d either destroy the world and set it on fire, or raze then rebuild it. More likely the former. Either way, I’d rather not.”

Feynriel stared up at the iron statues of the Gallows for a time. “I’d like to learn.” When his gaze returned to Hawke, it was determined and confident. “I’m not just giving up, not after all this.”

Hawke nodded. “Excellent decision. I’m thrilled not to have to kill you. It happens so rarely in my line of work. Now, we should get going. I imagine your physical body is quite hungry and thirsty. Oh! And your mother will be relieved to know you’re all right. She was pretty distraught, you know.”

He winced. “For a long time, it’s just been the two of us. She gave up everything for me. Without me, she could have returned to the Dalish. Just left me at a chantry and gone back to her people. But she didn’t. She stayed and raised me. I just wish she hadn’t been forced to make that choice between her son and her people.” He waved a hand at the Fade behind him. “That’s what the demon was getting at in the scene you walked in on. In his little temptation, I was Dalish, like my mother, so she never had to leave. I admit, it was the best temptation yet. But for all it was what I’d dreamed of, it just didn’t feel right. Like wearing a shoe on the wrong foot, or even just the arm of your shirt slightly twisted and out of place.”

“You are learning quickly,” said Justice. “You may yet prevail over your fears and abilities.”

“I’d rather like to prevail over going home right now.” Then Feynriel jumped and looked behind him. “We need to go. There’s another pride demon coming, and it isn’t even mine. This one is a lot stronger than the other.”

**_It is the blood mage’s demon. It must sense her presence with our bodies outside the Fade._ **

****Feynriel cleared his throat. “All right, giving it a try. Might want to hold on to something.”

Anders awakened to the tip of Hawke’s dagger at the hollow of his throat.

“You will listen to what I have to say,” she said.

He remained silent, which she took as acquiescence. 

She nodded. “Even good spirits can be corrupted. My father, he was a spirit healer. While neither Bethany nor I are such, once he began cautioning us about demons, we asked him about the spirits he called on to aid in healing. They were still Fade spirits, after all, like demons.”

**_We are not the same._ **

****_Shut up. Marian is talking right now, and I’d like for her to not kill me._

**_You mean us._ **

****_Not all the time._

“He explained the difference between spirits and demons,” said Hawke, “which isn’t as big as you’d think. Spirits embody the better aspects of mortals: compassion, faith, hope, valor, justice. Demons embrace the darker parts of our souls: rage, pride, sloth, greed, lust. Demons seek the mortal realm, the mortal life. Spirits do not. Most are content with their lot in the Fade, and only sometimes are inclined to aid in the lives of mortals. Usually, it’s compassion or faith who help healers. The others, they can’t be bothered. So, when a spirit of justice actively occupies the same space as a mortal mage, it’s worrisome, because they don’t _do_ that sort of thing. Demons do.”

**_I am no demon._ **

****_I said, shut up._

Hawke looked over at Merrill. “What do you think?”

“The Dalish believe that all spirits are dangerous in their own way.” Merrill regarded Anders with a sad, almost disappointed expression, like he’d personally failed her.

“He is still his own person,” said Marethari. “I can see that much in him.”

Hawke nodded. “I agree.” She focused on Anders again. “You are still you. If you remain that way, and we don’t see Justice, I’m fine with that. But if he pops out, if he takes control for a significant period of time in places other than the Fade, you would be no different from an abomination. Fellow mage or not, abominations are a danger and cannot be allowed to live.” Her eyes softened. “Please don’t make me kill you, Anders. I’ll do my best to watch out for you, to keep vigilant for moments when Justice attempts to take over, maybe talk you down. But if you full turn, I have no other choice. Don’t force that on me. I won’t want to lose my friend, and I certainly don’t want to lose my friend at my own hands.” She held his gaze until she saw whatever she needed within his, and then removed her dagger and sheathed it.

“Now,” said Hawke, turning to Marethari, “how is Feynriel?”

Anders let out a thready sigh of relief, only to be immediately alarmed by a templar striding through the front door. Justice’s will surged upward, and Anders brutally shoved it back down, unwilling to let Justice’s agenda get them both killed—at least for as long as he could manage it. He held no delusions that the battle over control of his body was a losing one, for both him and Justice. After Vengeance’s appearance with the templars, and the resulting massacre, he knew Vengeance would eventually supplant them both. But until then, he’d be damned if he died out of ignorance.

Gathering his hope that the templar hadn’t overheard any of his conversation with Hawke, Anders made eye contact with the templar. 

“Not here for you,” he said. “You’re Anders, right? Grey Warden?” Anders nodded, and the templar nodded in return. “Right. Well, we got a letter about you from some Grey Warden Commander in Ferelden. Seems she wanted to be sure Knight-Commander Meredith knew without question that Wardens are not under the rule of the Chantry, and that were you to be captured and taken to the Gallows, there would be repercussions from Weisshaupt. Not that Meredith wasn’t tempted, since she didn’t believe you’re truly here on a long-term assignment that could not be divulged.” The man gave a slight roll of his eyes. “However, the threat of Warden retaliation will keep you safe, provided you don’t turn abomination.”

So he obviously hadn’t overheard Hawke’s little chat with him. Good. 

“Name’s Thrask,” said the templar. 

“Nice, to, um, meet you?” said Anders.

Thrask chuckled lightly. “First time I’ve heard that from a mage.”

Hawke, breaking off her talk with Marethari, finally seemed to notice Thrask’s presence. “He’s on our side,” she said to Anders. “Remember? He’s the one who helped Feynriel out of the Gallows. We should be thankful.”

“I take it he’s recovered?” asked Thrask.

Hawke nodded. “Yes. Out of his long sleep and asserting control of his abilities. He managed to defeat a pride demon on his own at the end, so I’d say it’s good control thus far. But he still needs to learn, and for that, he needs a teacher. Thing is, I don’t know who.”

“Not anyone from the Circle,” said Thrask. “If you return him to the Gallows, he will be made Tranquil.”

“Not having that,” Feynriel said between bites of the bread Arianni had given him. “Figure something else out.”

“We can’t just pat you on the head and send you along on your own,” said Hawke. “You do need to be trained. We’ve discussed that before. And don’t you look at me for it, any of you. I can’t train him. I didn’t even know what he was until Keeper Marethari told me.” She glanced over at Feynriel again and scowled. “I’m even hesitant to let him stay in Kirkwall in general. The Veil here is thin, both at the Gallows and even in the city. I think the Veil is somewhat stronger at the base of Sundermount, but it’s practically nonexistent if you go up the mountain. He’d be safer at the base than in Kirkwall. However, were he to go up the slopes, it could end in disaster. Yet that option assumes you’d even take him, Keeper.”

**_He would not be safe there, either in the valley or on the mountain._ **

****_He’s strong now in his will. I think he’d be all right._

**_He would not be able to resist Sundermount’s slopes._ **

****_I think you underestimate a mage’s desire not to be possessed. Obviously, you know nothing about mages._

**_No. I know about demons._ **

****Given that Justice had spent hundreds of years trapped in a statue with probably hundreds of demons, he had a point.

_All right, I’ll give you that one._

“He will require more extensive training than I am able to give,” said Marethari. “I know of only one teacher of such arts, but I have not spoken to him for a number of years.”

Hawke pursed her lips. “Define ‘number,’ please?”

Marethari’s eyes went to the ceiling as she did calculations in her head before she addressed Hawke again. “A decade, perhaps. I am unsure of where to find him. But perhaps he will turn up. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

“Forgive me, but I can’t let Feynriel go on what’s equivalent of a hope and a prayer, Keeper.”

“I take no offense. As I said, I have not the skill to teach him.”

Anders wondered how Merrill felt about Marethari’s near offer, but when he glanced around to see her expression, he found that she had left some time while they’d been preoccupied by their conversation. It seemed Merrill had taken more offense to Marethari’s preferential treatment of Feynriel than he’d previously thought. 

Hawke sighed, and then slowly turned to Anders. “All right, as much as I hesitate to even _think_ it, what about you?”

“Me?” Anders’ eyes went wide. “Oh, no. I haven’t the slightest idea about manipulating the Fade as he does. I’d be useless, even if I tried to teach him while we waited for whoever Keeper Marethari spoke of.”

**_I am not unfamiliar._ **

****_I am the last person who should take an apprentice._

**_He would be_ my _apprentice._**

****Anders wasn’t even sure if that could work. Spirits didn’t have apprentices. You were either a Fade spirit or not. You couldn’t exactly train up to be one.

**_You can become one if you die._ **

****_Killing him isn’t an option. If it were, it would have been done already._

“Oh, come on,” said Hawke. “You were a Circle mage. You’ve been Harrowed. That means you were able to take an apprentice, being a full enchanter as you were. What about teaching him healing? Surely you’re capable of doing that. Maybe if he focuses fully on that, it’ll let him keep enough control for a time. Are you really going to tell me you haven’t taught anyone?”

“My last experience with having a student didn’t go well.” It hadn’t. He hadn’t been able to teach Líadan anything about healing, despite trying his very best. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t been trying, either. She had. It was just hopeless.

“Didn’t go well?”

“She never learned to heal. Not even the smallest cut.”

“Was she a blood mage?” asked Marethari. “Every mage I’ve known to practice blood magic has lost their ability to heal.”

He shook his head. “No, not a blood mage. She never learned it in the first place, despite many attempts with many different instructors.”

Marethari gave him a slight smile. “I once had an apprentice with the same problem. I suspect we shared a student.”

He didn’t doubt that the Keeper knew Anders was speaking of Líadan. However, he was reluctant to bring her up, though he couldn’t name why. So he just returned Marethari’s enigmatic smile.

“So it wasn’t your fault that your student didn’t do well.” Hawke looked at Feynriel again. “Think you could stand to learn a bit of healing?”

The young man had finally finished eating and was sitting back in the chair at the small table. “I imagine it would be a handy skill to have.”

“It is,” said Marethari.

Anders heaved a sigh at the others’ insistence despite his protests. “Fine. I can help him here until this person of the Keeper’s ‘turns up.’” 

Hawke beamed at him, and the change from the threatening specter she’d been right after leaving the Fade was dizzying. 

After a few minor details were hammered out, including Feynriel spending most of his days in the Darktown clinic, but living in the Alienage with his mother, Anders and Feynriel set out. He felt the young mage needed to at least see where he’d be working and learning, give him a chance to change his mind. Hawke remained behind to speak with Arianni and Thrask, who’d given them the reassurance that the Circle believed Feynriel dead, and that under the unofficial orders of Knight-Captain Cullen, the rumored Darktown clinic was to be left alone and off patrols.

Cullen. Anders remembered him. He’d seemed so young back at Kinloch Hold. Nice enough, for a templar, yet quite earnest. It appeared the templar had retained his ability to be reasonable and charitable when appropriate.

“Will they stop coming after me?” Feynriel asked as they strode through the dank corridors of Darktown. “The demons, I mean.”

Anders shook his head. “Never. They will never stop. They crave power and they crave the mortal realm and you provide the most powerful route to both. To them, you are the best meal they could ever have, and they will not stop trying to get it.”

“So this will be my life? Chased by them? Fighting them?”

“Only until you learn to command the power you have. Then you will control them in the Fade. You’ll be able to send them away with a mere thought, so you’ll be safe and protected by your own strengths. The key to your survival, until you have learned those protections, is for you to remain true to yourself and not allow possession.”

Feynriel took in Anders’ words and mulled them over as they continued their walk. Then after they’d descended the last staircase that led to Anders’ clinic, Feynriel asked, “Will I be able to protect others in the Fade?”

A surprising show of kindness, Anders thought. Perhaps there was hope for this boy, yet. “I don’t see why not. You’ll be able to control and manipulate whatever you want in the Fade. Why do you ask?”

**_There is a demon._ **

****_I know there’s a demon. There’s several._

**_Not them. They are of no concern for now. This demon is known as Torpor. He once claimed this boy, but he now claims a friend of yours._ **

****_What? Who?_

**_A Warden you once traveled with. Líadan was her name. I believe she and Feynriel were connected somehow through the Fade when Feynriel interacted with the shard of eluvian in the blood mage’s possession._ **

****_I need to warn her._ Anders knew his friend had the strength of will to resist, but he also recalled that she was with child. She’d already been exhibiting symptoms of exhaustion when they had parted ways, and she would be reaching a very tiring stage by now. Her exhaustion could be her unintentional undoing. _She needs to know._

**_She already knows._ **

****_Then I need to tell her how to stop it._

**_The demon must be killed._ **

****_Yes, but we need her_ here _to do it._

“I think I led a demon to someone else,” said Feynriel, sounding sheepish. “I owe it to her to keep it from taking her in my place. I’m fairly certain she was with child, she was in the Fade, at least, and I don’t know what would happen if the demon possessed her in that state. I can’t imagine it would be good.”

**_It would be unspeakable._ **

****“You might be able to aid her.”

**_Or he might lead more demons to her._ **

****_I assure you, she has incredible strength of will, despite her being a weak mage._

**_I am aware. I have managed to stop Torpor before, while you were asleep, which allowed me unfettered access to the Fade. However, I cannot always be there, as you cannot remain asleep forever._ **

****_For the best outcome, the demon must be killed. We could go through Feynriel’s version of the Fade, but we’d have to fight a bunch of demons just to get to her. So it would be best accomplished using her for the ritual to transport us to the Fade, if Marethari would consent to help. I believe she would._

“Is there anything you can do?” asked Feynriel.

“If you happen to see her again, do your best to remember other identifying features. You must have some connection with her for you to appear in her dream. Perhaps you merely walked by her one day, or maybe it’s something stronger. But for us to identify who it is, we need a better description other than ‘woman with child.’ I know a couple ways to defeat demons in the Fade, but we’ll need Keeper Marethari’s help again.”

“I feel bad, that I caused her trouble.”

“We’ll make it right.” They entered the clinic, and Anders frowned at the sound of scurrying rats. “I promise. Now. Go gather up those books along the counter on the back wall, and I’ll show you some basic spells.”

More rats scurried away when Feynriel went deeper into the large outer room of the clinic. Anders scowled. He would have to find another kitten or cat. There was Ser Pounce, but Merrill had become awfully attached to the cat. After seeing the pain she must go through daily at being a Dalish exile, he was reluctant to take away something she took such comfort in.

**_Regardless, we may have to liberate your cat._ **

****_What?_

**_Is that not the correct term? Would rescue be more apt?_ **

****_Rescue or liberate, why either for Ser Pounce? He’s perfectly content where he is._

**_He is in the care of a blood mage._ **

****_A remarkably sane blood mage, who is also a bit adorable, and also loves Ser Pounce a great deal._

**_Do not be swayed by the blood mage’s outward appearance._ **

****Anders was tempted to roll his eyes. _Merrill is fine. Ser Pounce has done well in her care. Certainly he’s done far better than he would in Darktown._

**_One day she may have use for his blood._ **

****_That’s just downright macabre. Not sure if you were paying attention, but she does have standards she won’t break. Among said standards is the one where she uses no blood but her own._

**_For now._ **

****_You’re awfully sinister._

**_I do not enjoy the presence of demons. Her demon is persistent. You witnessed how it nearly chased us into the territory of Feynriel’s dream. Pride demons rarely impugn upon the territory of other pride demons, and it would not have known so soon of the first demon’s demise._ **

****_But it didn’t trespass, just almost did, so calm down. Ser Pounce is perfectly safe and happy. Did I mention happy?_

**_We shall see._ **

****Anders didn’t like how Justice’s statement sounded like a threat.

**Morrigan**

Airmid halted right outside what Morrigan presumed to be the council’s meeting chamber. The elven woman’s confidence from their confrontation earlier had vanished, replaced by the disconcerted woman lacking in confidence they’d come across when they’d first exited the eluvian. “I truly did not believe you would be human,” said Airmid. “I expected one of the _elvhen_ when I predicted you would come here. To Arlathan, I mean, not here to the council chamber. That was more of a given, should my prophecy have come true.”

“You have prophesied much?” asked Morrigan. If she had, she did not seem terribly good at it. Prophets, if they were to have a chance at being believed, needed to be the living picture of confidence. This woman was decidedly not.

“No one believed me. Even though you stand right here carrying a child with the soul of one of Valoel—Flemeth’s, if you prefer—first children, I still fear they won’t believe me. They never have, not since we left.”

“No one ever believes true prophets,” said Nathaniel. “One can only know the true ones in hindsight, when their prophesies have become useless.”

Morrigan considered a remark about Nathaniel’s not-so-astonishing powers of observation, but found herself stuck on the issue of Flemeth’s first children. She had known she had older sisters, born before she was, perhaps even some of them were still alive. However, she had never believed herself less powerful than any who would be a sibling of hers. It simply could not be so. To discover that she had siblings far older than she’d ever imagined, and ones possessing of powers akin to godhood, gave her more than pause. 

Of course, that was if what this Airmid insisted was true, that the Old Gods were truly Flemeth’s first children, which presupposed that Flemeth was truly this Valoel of whom Airmid spoke.

“A quandary, to be sure,” Airmid said to Nathaniel. “None of the heads of Arlathan’s noble houses believed me. I suspect none will until it’s too late, but it won’t keep me from warning them.”

“Is that what this council is?” asked Nathaniel.

She nodded. “Yes. The elders are the heads of the noble houses—families, really. Well, all adults now. You know what I mean.”

Morrigan wasn’t sure if Airmid knew what she meant, but left it well alone.

She and Nathaniel entered the room behind Airmid, who walked forward with slow, even steps that did not hide her hesitancy. Cianán, lulled to sleep by the walk through the city, slumbered on, unaware of the change in venues. Morrigan hoped the initial meeting would be quick; Cianán would need to eat soon and she did not wish to feed him with Arlathan’s council watching. Not that she would be embarrassed, but because Cianán would be too easily distracted from his meal, and take far too long to nurse.

The chamber soared upward in slightly curved lines ending in a vaulted ceiling. Even with the subtle curves, more organic than the straight, piercing lines of human architecture, or the sturdy, massive construction of the dwarves, the Arlathan structures still evoked civilization and city, not nature. There was nothing wild about the buildings here, nothing that recalled forests or trees or animals or anything Morrigan had previously associated with elves, the Dalish in particular. She had expected the incorporation of nature even in elven-made constructs, that perhaps the ribs of the vault would be tree branches, and the foundation walls below them to be tree trunks. Instead, they were plain, unadorned stone. There were occasional carvings and inscriptions, but if anything, it reminded her of Tevinter architecture, Tevinter murals—if their murals were of the elven pantheon and not the Imperium’s favored Old Gods.

Her attention shifted to the elves who stood behind chairs placed around a long stone table. Unlike the other elves she had seen during their walk through the city, these ones _did_ bear the blood writing on their faces. It had been disconcerting to see so many non-city elves without the _vallaslin_ , but seeing them worn here, in such stark civilization, disconcerted her even more. Why did these elves bear the facial tattoos, but the others did not? If given the chance, she would have to ask Airmid in private. She would certainly not ask in public, for she was at enough of a disadvantage when it came to knowledge. It would not be wise to remind them of such.

“This is the boy with Urthemiel’s soul?” asked the tall elf at the head of the table.

Well, thought Morrigan, they certainly got straight to the point. Given the untold amount of time they had available to them, she was surprised these elders of Arlathan’s ruling council did not prevaricate more. “Yes,” she said out loud, her hand curving protectively over his head.

The woman next to him made a spectacle of looking around. “Is he the only one you have?”

“Yes.” Her answer came more slowly. Yes, Cianán was the only child she had brought here. These people did not need to know of her weakness that was Cáel.

The first man turned to Airmid. “I recall you saying there would be two. A boy with the soul of one of Valoel’s first children, and his mortal twin. There is one child here, daughter. Where is the other?”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. Did they speak of Cáel? She herself had not known he would come into existence, not as she knew Cianán would. Her glance slid quickly over to Airmid. Perhaps this elf did truly have the ability to accurately predict the future. 

Airmid held her hand up to halt her father’s questioning. “A moment, Corraidhín.” Once it became clear Corraidhín would allow her to speak, she turned to Morrigan. “You left your son’s brother behind?”

There was a power play being made here. Morrigan wasn’t sure of the exact nature of it, but she could recognize that it was not a mere father-daughter conflict. She did not like it, and she did not like the details being unknown, for it rendered her unable to know which side was the more powerful. She would have to answer in order to draw out the answers she sought. “Yes.”

“Good.” Airmid nodded and crossed her arms. “He will be needed to protect his sister should she be rendered unable to protect herself.”

“Sister?” asked Morrigan, but Airmid had already returned to her confrontation with Corraidhín. Morrigan felt her nostrils flare at the snub, but reined in the rest of her temper. Sister? Cáel had no sister, no more than Cianán did. Though, sisterhood was not a thing granted just by blood alone, as evidenced by Morrigan’s closeness with Líadan, more a sister to her than any of Flemeth’s other daughters. Then again, perhaps Airmid could have been insinuating that Malcolm and Líadan would have a child of their own, which Morrigan knew to be near impossible given they were both Grey Wardens. The only way they could produce a child between the two of them would be complex magic or interaction with a Veil so thin one could see the Fade from the mortal realm. Even so, the vile Oghren would not have taken those odds. 

“Fine. So part of your so-called prophecy did come true,” Corraidhín finally said in a pronouncement to the rest of the council. “It could merely be circumstance.”

Time was being wasted, time she did not have, and Morrigan loosened the reins of her temper. “Because people accidentally tumble into working eluvians all the time?” she asked. “You’ve a deluge of inadvertent visitors to Arlathan?”

Corraidhín fixed an imperious gaze upon her. “This is not the time for humor.”

“And this is not the time to be wasting time.” Morrigan met his gaze with an equal one. Her only concession was that she had to slightly lift her chin. The man was the tallest elf she’d yet to meet, easily the height of an average human male, which was unheard of on Thedas. “As you squabble, eluvians are being destroyed. With them go your last pathways from this place. This circumstance should make you want to act quickly rather than languish.” She paused. “Unless you’ve a wish to stay here permanently?”

“They are not squabbles,” said an elf with wheat-colored hair piled and wrapped intricately on her head. “They are discussions of import you cannot understand.”

“I understand well enough what a family squabble is when I hear it, and that is what I most certainly heard,” said Morrigan. 

“Why are the eluvians being destroyed?” asked Corraidhín, waving down the woman who had just spoken. 

“Because we believed they posed a danger.” Part of Morrigan still believed they were a danger, for as long as they existed, they were a way for Flemeth to get to her. The greater danger was found in that they were the only methods of escape from this place. Once they were gone, they would be trapped. She would be trapped.

“Was so much of our knowledge lost?” asked another woman. 

Corraidhín motioned for the other elves to sit down as he took his own seat. “Yes, I am curious. What has become of our knowledge?” Then he propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand, as if he were a child ready to listen raptly to a story.

Morrigan felt no compulsion to hold back, either with information or to soften her harshness. “Lost,” she said. “Forgotten, buried. Fragments survive, here and there, with some of your descendants. Yet, the vast amount of knowledge elves once possessed disappeared with you. The age of the elves, of your _Elvhenan_ and its great city of Arlathan, entered the realm of legend and myth, much as you entered _Setheneran_.”

“Tell me what happened to our people,” said Corraidhín.

Were she not already inclined to gladly relay the somber information, Morrigan would have rejected his request out of hand for the demand he’d made it. Because it was a weapon, she told them exactly what had occurred after they had abandoned their people. Morrigan recited from memory of what Flemeth had taught her, information augmented by Líadan’s knowledge gained from the Dalish Keeper, Marethari. She told the council of the enslavement of the elves after Arlathan disappeared, of the final, losing battle at Sundermount. She told them of the hundreds of years as Tevinter slaves, of the rise of a barbarian to lead a rebellion, of elves led by Shartan joining the rebellion. She told them of Shartan’s betrayal after Andraste’s own, and then she told them of the Long Walk to the Dales, the forming of the Chantry, the Exalted March, and the ensuing second form of slavery. She told of those not enslaved who were forced to be wanderers, forever without a home, because their home had vanished a long time ago. 

When she finished speaking, standing in the very home the Dalish had long sought to recover, the elders of Arlathan’s council sat in horrified silence.

As they stared at her, Morrigan began to believe that perhaps she should, for once, have employed tact.


	54. Chapter 54

“And I looked at the creature and it had become me. A veritable copy of my form, of my very mind, stared back at me as if from within a mirror. I thought surely that this was a trick, an illusion meant to put me off guard... but as I engaged the thing with my sword, it fought me with maneuvers that I recognized. It parried as I parried; it swung as I swung. It spoke to me and said things only I could know. I... I think this demon of sloth has no form or identity of its own. It is envy as much as sloth, I believe, and mine was not the first shape it stole that day.” ****

— _excerpt from a transcribed deposition of Tyrenus, Knight-Commander of Cumberland_ , 9:30 Towers

**Malcolm**

****Malcolm jolted awake when a stray foot hit him in the side of the head. He sat up and opened his eyes, just in time to see Líadan’s body fall over the edge, but not quickly enough to catch her. As she hit the stone floor with an audible thump, he scrambled out of the bed. A wild surge of magic began to build up in her even as her eyes remained alarmingly closed. He didn’t know what sort of magic or spell she was summoning, and doing so in such close confines with her kind of magic would be dangerous to them both. So, he gritted his teeth and summoned a smite, praying to whatever deity that would deign to listen that it would be strong enough to keep the magic from spilling over, but not so strong that it harmed her or their child.

The magic approached its tipping point and he let the smite go, adding a cleanse to the air of the room right after, just in case. Then he ran over to kneel next to her as he heard shouts of alarm from the other rooms in the compound. He brushed her hair out of her eyes as he willed her to wake up and wished he had finer control of his templar skills, like Alistair had. If he had better control, a more refined aim, he wouldn’t have to worry about hurting her in situations like this. It had never come up before, but he’d known use of magic while waking was a possibility, especially when it came to darkspawn dreams. After all, there were only so many dreams you could have about killing darkspawn before you woke up slinging fireballs. Even in the relatively short time since they’d bonded, he’d twice awakened in the middle of a sword swing, only to find himself facing an irate wife instead of a darkspawn. It stood to reason she had some catching up to do.

“What happened?” came Thierry’s voice from the doorway. 

At nearly the same time, Bethany said, “Out of the way. Truly, you’re worse than my big lout of a brother.”

Malcolm looked up to see her shove past Thierry to get into the bedroom. Right, Bethany had good healing skills. “I don’t know what happened,” he said to both of them. “She fell out of bed and her magic started surging and she wouldn’t wake up, so I had to use a smite and I’m sorry—”

“No need to apologize,” Bethany said as she knelt across from him. “You did the right thing, and that’s coming from a mage.” A glow formed around her hands as she began to check over Líadan’s still form. “Someone should still fetch Wynne. She has far more experience than I do.”

“I will go,” Eleri said softly, though Eleri always spoke softly, which Malcolm hadn’t expected from an Avvar.

More footsteps sounded, and Jurian Amell appeared behind Thierry. “Is she possessed?” 

“What? No! No. I don’t... no.” Unpleasant as it was, Malcolm knew the question wasn’t unwarranted. But Líadan had never been hounded by demons because of her weak magic, and he didn’t see why they’d bother to start now.

“Sodding say that again and I’ll cut you where you stand, manskirt,” said Oghren.

Malcolm loved Oghren.

“It’s a valid question,” said Jurian. 

Not so much Jurian.

“You can shove your valid question up your arse. The elf’s too strong for a demon. Something else is wrong.” Unlike the friendly rivalry he’d struck up with Anders, Oghren lent no friendliness to his rivalry with Jurian. 

Jurian scoffed. “If you’re referring to the strength of her magic, then you’ve the wrong of it.”

“Will, cousin.” Bethany didn’t look up from her task, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to figure out what was wrong with Líadan. “He’s referring to her strength of will. Not everyone can have magic as strong as yours, nor does everyone want to.” Bethany tended to get a bit tetchy with her second cousin. From his own interaction with Jurian Amell, Malcolm couldn’t find it within himself to blame her. More often than not, he wanted to pop the smug man in the face, and not in the friendly way he usually wanted to punch his brothers.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Malcolm asked him. “You aren’t a healer. You don’t have templar skills. You’re just hovering.”

“And being a pompous ass,” said Oghren.

Jurian folded his arms over his chest. “I felt a smite. I merely wanted to make sure I would not be next.”

“Keep going like you are and the blighter’s liable to use one on you just to get you to shut up.”

“Fine, I’m going back to bed. Hope you don’t get eaten by an abomination.” With that, Jurian sniffed and left the room.

“Are you _sure_ he’s related to you?” Malcolm asked Bethany.

She sighed.

Their attention went back downward when Líadan shifted, her hand searching out his as she struggled to open her eyes. She blinked several times, her eyes taking a little while to focus. Then she stared at him like she wasn’t sure who he was. “Are you real?” she whispered.

“Yes?” He winced when he was unable to keep the question out of his tone. “I mean, yes. No question. Quite real. This isn’t the Fade. Rather lacking in the presence of the Black City, and also demons, unless you count Jurian and possibly the Seekers running around.” He wondered if he kept rambling if he could keep himself from thinking that maybe there _had_ been the threat of a demon, that a demon had nearly tricked her, and she might really think that she was in a Fade dream set up by a demon right in that moment.

She closed her eyes. “I thought last time it was and it _wasn’t_. How do I know?”

“This is about nightmares, right? Tell me it’s about nightmares. Regular ones instead of darkspawn ones?”

“I doubt it,” said Thierry. “It sounds like—”

“Thierry, I really do respect you, and I know you’re trained in these things, but you need to shut up right now,” said Malcolm.

“Shoo,” came Wynne’s voice as she bustled through the doorway, Eleri trailing behind her. “Out with you.” She glanced at Líadan and then at Malcolm. “You, young man, put on a shirt before you catch cold and give me _two_ patients. Then go down to the kitchens and fetch tea and enough mugs for everyone.”

He knew when he was being sent on busywork when he heard it. But Wynne rarely did something concerning healing without having a purpose, so whatever it was that she needed him away for, it was for good reason. Not that he liked it, but he understood. And now that Wynne had brought up the fact that he wore no shirt and was only clad in the loose linen breeches he wore to bed, he felt self-conscious. Bethany’s once-over and subsequent slight blush did _not_ help matters. Had Líadan been aware and healthy, she would have made a droll comment, but since something was wrong— _very_ wrong, his mind told him—she remained quiet, not even acknowledging the look at all. 

The non-reaction disturbed him most of all. He gave her hand a squeeze and then did as Wynne asked, leaving the mages behind to puzzle over Líadan. 

Thierry waited for him at the end of the hall. “I don’t believe she is possessed,” he said. 

Malcolm gave him a sour look. “Not holding back there, are you?”

“I did not think you would appreciate evasiveness or platitudes, since you are well aware of the dangers the Fade presents to a mage.” The expression on Thierry’s face looked much like what Malcolm imagined his own to be. “I have witnessed enough possessions during Harrowings throughout my tenure as Knight-Commander that I know the signs of both abomination and willfully possessed. Líadan resembles neither.”

“She was rather lacking in the grotesque aspect of your typical abomination.” Malcolm decided he had to keep his sense of humor, or he was liable to run out into the training yard and start shouting obscenities. Either that, or punch Thierry. Maybe Jurian. He deserved it more. Malcolm withheld a sigh and headed for the kitchens. If Thierry had things to say, he could follow him there. The tea was for Wynne, and Malcolm had no intentions of finding himself on the healer’s bad side.

“I—” Thierry looked at him in askance before he was able to continue. “Yes, I suppose. However, that doesn’t preclude what I believe is happening.”

“Don’t make me ask, Thierry. Just tell me. I doubt it’s worse than anything I’ve been wondering myself in the past few minutes.” He hoped not, anyway. After what he’d witnessed in Kinloch Hold during the Blight, his imagination had plenty to go on when it came to the Fade, mages, and demons.

“She is either plagued by several demons whenever she enters the Fade, or has somehow drawn the attention of a single demon. Only she can tell us which possibility it is, though I highly suspect there is a demon of sloth at work.”

“How do you know?”

“She asked if you were real. Sloth demons don’t offer temptations like many other demons do. Other demons, such as desire demons or pride demons, are more obvious. Sloth demons use trickery to make you believe the Fade dream they create is real, and so you remain there out of choice, only able to leave if you figure out the trick before the demon has used up all the life and energy from your body while you dreamed.”

Like what had happened to them at Kinloch Hold, where Wynne had saved all their lives by figuring out they were trapped in dreams. If she hadn’t been there, none of them would have broken free, and by now, they would all be dead. “During the Blight, something similar happened to us when we went through Kinloch Hold. It sucked.”

Thierry nodded. “Yes, I can imagine it would.”

“All right, so I can see how a sloth demon being after her has caused all this, but what I don’t understand is why.” Malcolm opened the door to kitchen and strode in, Thierry right behind him. “She’s never been pursued by a demon before. Not ever, because her magic is weak enough that the demons see it as almost no magic at all. They don’t bother because there are better options available. So why this demon? Why a demon of sloth? You wouldn’t think they’d be terribly motivated.”

“I am unsure as to the reasons, but I am fairly sure it is what’s happening.”

Malcolm stopped in the middle of the kitchen, realizing he had no idea where things were kept. “If you really think she’s being hounded by a demon, why aren’t you up there standing over her with a Sword of Mercy out?”

“If she were in true danger of possession any time soon, she would already be possessed. Bethany and Oghren aren’t wrong. While her magic is weak, her will is very strong. Danger for her won’t present until she’s entirely worn down and exhausted. It could take weeks. The problem is that the demon has plenty of time, and sloth demons are known for their patience. A rage demon would have given up, a desire demon would have gotten distracted, and a pride demon wouldn’t care. Sloth, however, plays a different game.” Thierry paused before he added, “And I no longer have a Sword of Mercy in my possession. I sold it, along with my Chantry-issued templar armor, after my Joining.”

He could ring up one of the cooks or assistants, Malcolm thought, barely registering the significance of what Thierry had said. Nan had generally preferred being woken up or having a staff member woken up over having her kitchen turned into a disorganized mess because some noble thought he could figure out her system. Not that he’d gotten scolded for it more than once. Once had been quite enough. He sighed. “What do we do?”

“It depends. Were we at a Circle, Senior Enchanters would enter the Fade and assist the mage in question to kill the demon.”

“Líadan won’t step foot in a Circle, even Kinloch Hold.”

“I know. I would not dare to even ask her.” Thierry scratched at the stubble on his cheek while Malcolm began to hunt through cupboards. “Her grandfather is a Dalish Keeper, is he not? Perhaps we should seek his advice. The Dalish must have methods of dealing with things like this, as well, or templars would hear many more reports of Keepers becoming abominations.”

“That’s almost a good idea. The problem is that she hasn’t spoken to Keeper Emrys since he left a few days ago. He said he’d come back—at least, that’s what Líadan told me—in a few days, but he hasn’t appeared yet. So, I don’t know.” But even if he did, he really didn’t think she’d want to tell him about a demon. Maybe she’d tell... no, he didn’t see her telling Keeper Marethari, either. Possibly she’d tell Keeper Lanaya and seek her help, but they had no idea where her clan was. He sighed, both at the situation with Líadan and at not finding the tea Wynne had requested. No tea in the cupboard he’d opened, nor did he even know where a teapot was. Maker, this was a hopeless task. 

Both tasks, because there wouldn’t be any solutions that didn’t make more than one person uncomfortable. Malcolm also hadn’t mentioned to anyone that after Keeper Emrys had spoken with Líadan in private, the esteemed Keeper had come in search for him under the pretense of looking for Ariane and Oisín. It hadn’t gone well, and what Malcolm mostly got from the confrontation was that for all Emrys had been _un_ involved in Líadan’s life, he was certainly a fair bit protective of her. He’d never, not in all his life, had someone threaten to tear him limb from limb in such a unique way. Even Oisín had looked sympathetic at overhearing it.

“Then I do not know what we will do,” said Thierry. “Yet something will have to be done. The longer the demon continues to disturb her dreams, the worse it will get for her. It will take her longer and longer to realize and believe that this world is real when she is in it. She will begin to fear that everything is of the demon’s construct, and the dreams a sloth demon can concoct are not always good dreams. There are bad ones—”

“I know what a sloth demon can do, so let’s not go into the nasty possibilities. Instead, we’ll agree that the outcome will be horrible if we just sit on our asses. Now, what I don’t know, is where I can get sodding tea for Wynne.”

“That would be the pantry, ser,” said a half-awake young woman whom Malcolm recognized as one of the baker’s apprentices. “Cook will be here shortly, and some more of the staff. If you want, I can have her send up a pot of tea instead of you scrounging around.” 

“Maybe,” said Malcolm. He wasn’t sure if Wynne would be happy with him if he went back up without tea in hand.

The apprentice shrugged. “If you want to stay and search, risking her wrath, you’re welcome to it, ser. I wouldn’t _recommend_ it, but I won’t stop you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Warning much appreciated. I would also appreciate a pot of tea being sent up to Wynne. She’s in my room, though. Bit of an emergency.”

Sleepy eyes widened, becoming instantly awake. “Is it Warden Líadan? Is she all right? Is the—”

“Physically fine when we left,” Malcolm said before she could work herself into a panic. He hadn’t realized how protective and attached the staff were to Líadan, though he now knew he should’ve seen it before. The Wardens’ household staff were a rather loyal and considerate lot. They also doted on Cáel when he was in residence. The thought of his son sent a pang of wistfulness through him, almost a very real pain at how much he missed him. He did not want the separation to continue, but keeping Cáel at the Vigil meant he’d be safe, and he and Líadan remaining here in Denerim meant they kept the peace. It didn’t make it any less a shit situation, but it was what it was. 

Malcolm exhaled in an attempt to relieve the stress. “Wynne’s just checking her over. Had a scare, so she wanted to make sure.”

“Oh, that’s a relief to hear.” The apprentice’s smile was genuine. “Is there anything I can do for her?”

“Ariane said she left some Dalish tea here when she visited a few days ago. Maybe you could see that Cook uses that? I know Wynne would be fine with practically any tea, but Líadan would really appreciate it.” 

“I’ll see it’s done! Now, off with you, ser, before Cook sees you in her kitchens.”

Malcolm didn’t need to be told twice, not after facing Nan’s wrath as a boy, and scuttled out of the kitchens. Thierry followed closely, apparently having experienced run-ins of his own before. Either that, or he was eager to be absolutely sure that Líadan wasn’t possessed and hadn’t laid waste to the entire second floor of the compound. 

Once up the stairs, they found it quiet and not resembling a space recently razed by an abomination, a space with which Malcolm was acutely familiar. It appeared the rest of the Wardens had returned to their beds except for Bethany, who waited outside the room. She gave Thierry a civil nod—theirs was a camaraderie incredibly slow in the making—before addressing Malcolm. “They’re still talking. Líadan, she’s healed, I mean. Just some bumps that are nothing when it comes to Warden injuries. What she experienced in the Fade, however, will take some time to deal with.”

“So it’s a demon,” said Thierry.

Malcolm scowled at him. “She didn’t say that.” Then he turned to Bethany. “Did she?”

Her amber colored eyes darted every which way in an attempt to refrain from making eye contact with him. “It isn’t my place to say.” Bethany inhaled slowly, gathering courage, and then faced Malcolm. “She’ll need to talk to you, but I’m not sure how willing she’ll be.”

He snorted. “Unless it’s yelling or some sort of dry remark, she’s usually not very willing to talk. We’re lucky enough that Wynne’s around and she’ll talk to her.” His lightheartedness was a ruse, and he realized it probably wasn’t a very good one, because Bethany didn’t look at all amused. She seemed a little sad for him, which was strange. It didn’t help with suppressing his memories of Kinloch Hold and the horrors from within, especially not how he’d been in such strong thrall of the sloth demon that it had taken physical force to bring him out of it. Without Wynne’s magic and Alistair’s strength, he would still be at the mercy of the demon, still trying to save his parents from Howe’s men at the cost of his own life. He rubbed at his forehead, hoping that what everyone assumed—that what plagued Líadan was a demon—simply wasn’t true. Maybe it was just bad dreams caused by pregnancy. It happened to some women, he’d been told.

At times like these, he really wished he were a better liar, especially when it came to lying to himself. 

A servant carrying a tray with a large teapot and mugs—standard teacups bordered on too small for Wardens—stepped lightly down the hall, heading for them. As she did, the door behind them cracked open wide enough for Wynne to pop her head through. “I thought I heard your voice,” she said to Malcolm. “You should come in and... talk. If either of you have need of me afterward, I will be in the library.”

Unable to comprehend why these measures were necessary, and therefore unable to put into proper words any of his thoughts, he motioned toward the approaching servant. “She’s got the tea,” he said. “They didn’t want me messing up the kitchens.”

Wynne nodded, sniffing at the cup handed to her by the servant. The healer was in the compound often enough that the staff provided her with normal sized portions of food and drink, and not portion sizes meant for Wardens. “Dalish tea? Good choice. Bring cups in with you. You’ll both need it, I fear.”

He was really starting to wonder if the baby wasn’t okay, because the way everyone acted, it seemed like they were avoiding telling him as they waited for Líadan to break some sort of terrible news. Maybe there _was_ a demon and the demon had somehow taken the child and was that even _possible_? Maker, he hoped not. He accepted the mugs from the servant, whose name he couldn’t remember, looked at the doorway that Wynne had just come through, and then back at Wynne. “And the baby is okay?”

“The child is fine, I promise.”

Though, he did note how specific Wynne had been. The child, fine. Líadan, not so much, it seemed. “Right. ”

Wynne squeezed his arm in a gesture of reassurance. “I think you’ll both be all right.”

Then Malcolm walked through the door, one of the others closing it behind him because both his hands were occupied with holding mugs of tea. Líadan sat cross-legged on the braided rug in front of the hearth. Her elbows were propped on her knees, and her chin rested on her hands. Even in the warm light from the fire, she looked pale, the lines of her tattoos more sharply defined than usual. Revas sat nearby, looking worriedly in Líadan’s direction, but pausing long enough to give Malcolm a whuff of acknowledgement. Ever since they’d lost Gunnar, Revas had been a whole lot nicer to him. He was grateful for it, just as he was grateful that she was so good for Líadan to have around. 

Líadan’s eyes briefly flicked in his direction when he entered, but quickly returned to their contemplation of the fire. He didn’t like the desolation he’d seen in them in the brief moment they had focused on him. But he held in his sigh and extended the mug of tea.

“Here,” he said. “Dalish tea, by the way.”

“It’s a demon,” said Líadan.

He dropped the mug. It landed with a thump, but did not break. The tea sloshed out, soaking the rug, and leaving only dregs inside the overturned cup. “Damn.” He wasn’t sure if he swore over the tea or the demon. “Good thing I brought two.” Then he extended the other mug, because it was far better she have the tea rather than him. After all, _he_ didn’t have a demon chasing him.

“At least,” she said, not acknowledging the dropped mug beyond glancing at it, and then accepting his offer of the other, “the most probable answer is that it’s a demon. Either that, or Flemeth has lost her flair for the dramatic.”

Flemeth suffering a loss of creativity was an occurrence Malcolm highly doubted could ever happen, not where she was concerned. “So it’s a demon.”

Líadan held her face over the steam wafting from the mug, looking slightly less forlorn as she inhaled the scent of her childhood. “Sloth demon that’s trying to trap me in dreams or nightmares. Wynne said that’s why I was having trouble believing this was real. Because everything in the dreams seemed so real, up until when they weren’t.”

“I’m... familiar with such dreams.” At her questioning look, he recalled that he’d never really spoken about what’d happened at Kinloch Hold. “During the Blight, while we were fighting through the Circle tower, we all got caught in a trap laid by a sloth demon. Wynne was the only one of us who recognized it on her own, and she had to save the rest of us. She managed to convince Alistair, then the two of them convinced Leliana. I wasn’t so easily convinced. Alistair had to whack me a few times with his shield, and then Wynne put a force field around me. But I was absolutely convinced the dream was real, and that I didn’t know my friends. I thought they were threats come to tear me away from my parents, and tried to fight them accordingly.” Even years later, he flushed in embarrassment at the memory that had been so _real_. “I’m not proud of it, but I can understand how real the demon can make it seem.”

He took a step closer, wondering if he should sit down near her. Thanks to his clumsy shock, the patch of rug on her left wasn’t an option unless he wanted to sit in tea. But if he went to her right, he’d really be testing how much Revas liked him since he’d practically be pushing the mabari out of the way to sit there.

Líadan ran a finger around the rim of her mug. “The demon pretended to be you, twice in a row.” Without looking up, she went on. “I nearly slept with him the first time, before I realized what was wrong. The second time, I didn’t realize it soon enough.”

Rage crashed through him, not at Líadan, but at the demon for tricking her in such a way. It explained why she’d flung herself violently from the bed on waking. The demon had used him to use her, and she’d thought he was the demon. That _he_ had... “Do you want me to go?” he asked, because if he reminded her of it, if he caused her more pain, or if she believed his anger was directed at her, she would be better off without him here. As much as he wanted to stay, to help, if he was going to make it worse, he’d go. What mattered most was what she needed.

He also had a demon to kill, but that was beside the point.

“No. I don’t think I do. I just...” She glanced over at Revas, and then nudged the mabari over. “Give him room. You can drool on him if you want, but let him sit.” Revas huffed indignantly, but scooted over just enough for Malcolm to fit. Líadan patted the newly-freed spot on the rug. “Come sit. You’re looming, even if you don’t realize it.”

He shot her an uneasy look, but did as she asked, even refraining from frowning at Revas when she plopped her drooling muzzle on his knee. Then he fidgeted with his fingers in his lap, suddenly shy because he didn’t know what to _do_. In an odd way, he felt somewhat responsible, that he should be making some sort of amends for what the demon had done. But he wasn’t sure if she’d welcome his touch or even any words of reassurance.

“I won’t let the demon win,” she said.

“I know you won’t.” That had never really been in question, he felt. 

After giving him a disconcerted look, she placed the mug on top of the stones in front of the hearth. “I’m not talking about possession, though it applies there, too.”

He frowned. “Then what are you talking about?”

“This.” She gestured between them. “Us. This weirdness. You won’t touch me, not even incidental contact.”

“I didn’t want to do anything you wouldn’t welcome.”

She reached out and took his hand in hers, holding it until he looked over at her. “You didn’t assault me through deception. The demon did. If you really doubt that even a comforting arm around the shoulders would be unwelcome, then ask. Usually the asking between us is saved for more intimate contact, but whatever works to keep our bond from straining and breaking will do. I won’t let the demon force us apart. I refuse, and so should you.”

“All right,” he said. It wasn’t like he wanted the demon to win, either. 

She nodded. “Besides, if we’re going to hold each other or ourselves accountable for what we or a demon did in the Beyond, I’m in more trouble than you. The first time, I killed you when I realized the demon was pretending to be you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“I didn’t say it was easy. I do think that’s what made it possible for the demon to trick me in the dream afterward. I was relieved that you were okay. And, well, you know how I tend to express that sometimes.”

Did he ever. He chuckled at the _very_ good memories.

She moved her hand from atop his to punch him in the arm, but good-naturedly. Then as he rubbed his shoulder, she lightly traced the outer shell of his ear, and then withdrew her hand to her lap. “Good. Round.”

“It wasn’t before?”

“Second time, it was.” Her smile was hesitant and not quite genuine. “First time, no. Pointed, because you were a Dalish elf. The ears first alerted me, and then,” her fingers scraped against the stubble on his cheek and chin, “the lack of stubble. Elven men don’t grow beards, so between the smooth face and pointed ears, I remembered who you really were.”

“So you killed me.”

Líadan released a long breath and returned her gaze to the fire. “So I killed you. Then, in the next dream—”

“Right.” He closed his eyes, doing his best not to think about it. Closing his eyes only made it worse, and he could see them, her with a demon wearing his face, and he fought the ridiculous urge to prove to her how _his_ touch could never be mistaken for a demon’s. Except, the last time he’d felt the need to prove himself over some sort of perceived rivalry—though the demon wasn’t a rival, not exactly—it had resulted in the child Líadan now carried. Added to that, he still wasn’t sure how welcome his touch would be, if it went beyond reassurance. 

How had she not known it was him? Was he not recognizable to her at this point?

“I was shocked that I fell for it so thoroughly,” said Líadan, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “When I told Wynne, she explained that the sloth demon uses my memories to construct the dream. So, his version of you that he pulled from my mind would be just as familiar as the real version of you, outside the Beyond.”

It was almost reassuring. It wasn’t like he didn’t _know_ how very alive a sloth demon could make one’s loved ones. He’d fallen for it before, probably more readily than she had, because he hadn’t broken himself out of the dream. He’d had help. Without it, he knew he’d still be in there, and out here, he’d be dead. “What got you out of it?”

“I realized that I wasn’t with child.” She brushed her middle then quickly folded her hands over the top of it. “She wasn’t between us.”

“Is...” He didn’t want to say it. He knew, and she had to know he knew, that the sloth demon also used a person’s wants and wishes to create its dreams that its victim would never want to leave. Dreams so enticing that the thought of escape would never cross their mind. One of those realities had been without their unborn child, which meant she still didn’t truly... and now he had to say it. “You don’t want her.” He couldn’t keep the accusation out of his tone.

“I...” Her hand slid down to rub at her belly, scratching at skin now stretched enough to be itchy a lot of the time; she’d told him as much when he’d commented before on the new habit. “I still can’t...” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She’ll be here in two months, maybe less. Maybe a little more. It’s far too late to change my mind.”

“Having her is so bad that the possibility of not having her would cross your mind, even now?” 

Líadan grimaced and ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at it a few times in her frustration. “When I have this human child, I’m not sure if you can ever truly understand how much of a betrayal it will be to my people. The Gift is important to the _elvhen_ —it’s those people who become our Keepers, and their numbers aren’t exactly high. They’re few enough that not every clan has extra mages beyond their Keeper. My grandfather, despite whatever faults he has, is a very powerful mage. Denying my people the potential of his Gift is a crime all its own. And yet, that’s what I’ve chosen. _When_ I have _my_ human child.” She finally looked at him, her eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed with determination and more than a hint of anger. “Not _if_. I’m not going back on what I chose, even if I could. I love you. You are my bondmate. She is our child. That love has to extend to her. It just hasn’t... it hasn’t manifested yet.”

He couldn’t seem to switch his focus to her almost positive words, only the negative, only what her unconscious mind had expressed to the sloth demon. “But you don’t want her. You wish for a life where she didn’t exist.”

Her hands moved off her middle to curl into fists, and then she pressed them hard against the rug underneath them, every muscle in her body tensing behind the pressure. “If I truly did not want her, I would never have gone this far. There’s a lot to accept. Emrys hasn’t helped, if you hadn’t noticed. Not with his reminders of the Gift. What if she shows magic? What if she’s a mage? Then no matter how I might manage to free myself from the guilt, another betrayal will be made.”

Unable to remain still, he got to his feet to walk around the room so he could expend the energy tumbling through him. “Or you could stop feeling guilty long enough to remember that my own mother was a mage, and if our daughter turns out to be one, it could be from me just as much as you.” In his aggravation at his inability to properly convey to her everything he felt, he pressed his palms against his forehead, and then pulled them away to resume pacing. “You don’t have to bear all the guilt.” He stopped to look at her, though when he did, her gaze had returned to the fire. “Guilt shouldn’t be the only emotion either of us feels about this. About her.” He tried to staunch the flow of anger from a wound he hadn’t realized he even had, but it just kept seeping out around his attempts.

Revas glared at him from where she sat—a clear warning.

He didn’t ignore it, not exactly, but he didn’t give it any heed, either. “There’s guilt in every direction we turn where she’s concerned. You feel guilty that you’re betraying your people. I feel guilty because I aided in it. You feel guilty that you’ve disappointed your grandfather—and don’t try to tell me you don’t, because I _saw_ the look on your face, however brief it was. I feel guilty that I’m responsible for another child of a royal line being conceived out of wedlock, and very nearly another bastard. And whenever I look at you out of the corner of my eye, when you think no one can see you, you look down and you’re so bloody despondent that I can’t stand it and there’s _nothing_ I can do to help you. Nothing, except wait for your signals on how to react, how to handle everything when it comes to her. I just... all I want...” He’d turned to look at her again, and this time she hadn’t been looking at the fire. She’d been watching him. Despite his anger, he recognized the increasingly wary, hurt expression in her eyes no matter how she struggled to contain it, and he couldn’t bring himself to continue.

“What do you want?” she asked. She sounded small. Not herself.

He shook his head. Wasn’t important. What was important was that there was a demon, that his wife had been violated by that demon, that her own grandfather found her unworthy of her people, and that she believed she’d betrayed her people. What didn’t matter was whatever comparably little things that bothered him. He knew it.

So why couldn’t he stop being angry?

“Obviously it’s been bothering you enough for you to start shouting. So please tell me what it is you _want_.” The smallness had fled, replaced by belligerence.

He hadn’t realized he’d raised his voice; his temper had clearly gotten away from him after its sneak attack. His shoulders slumped as he leaned against the wall behind him. “To be happy,” he said after she did not relent in her steady gaze. He looked up at the ceiling, unable to meet her eyes, unable to bear the hurt behind her glare, hurt caused by him. “For you to be happy. For me to be happy and not feel guilty about it. Just, for sodding once, I’d like things to be normal. For us to be able to be like any other expectant parents, and not just barely tolerate our daughter’s existence while miring in massive amounts of guilt. You haven’t even fully, truly smiled about her, not _once_. And to find out that, even now, you don’t want her means there isn’t much hope for happiness. Not with such a short time left.” 

Malcolm knew he should have known better than to have hoped, even a little. It wasn’t like they hadn’t had several conversations about this well before they’d even bonded. The lack of children was what allowed their relationship without it being a betrayal on her part, and in some ways, his. Their unborn child’s existence was everything they hadn’t intended, taking away the sole reason that allowed her to be with him without the all-consuming guilt. Every moment they saw her, she would be a reminder.

When Líadan didn’t reply, when her angry retort never materialized, he finally halted his study of the incredibly boring ceiling to look at her.

Much like he’d found her when he’d come in, she stared silently at the fire. Except now he could see her jaw flexing as she gritted her teeth; how her chin quivered as she held her eyes wide to unsuccessfully ward off—

Shit. He’d made her cry. He felt like the worst person who’d ever lived because she’d told him once that she hadn’t cried since before her parents had died. And now he’d gone and said enough hurtful things to reduce her to tears. Small wonder Revas shot him a baleful look before letting out a whine.

Again, he didn’t know what to _do_. Usually, he’d find some way to comfort her from her upset. Distract her with jokes, offer a hug or an arm around the shoulder, or just talk until her disquiet passed. But this time, he was the cause of her hurt, even more than he’d been when the demon had taken his form in order to take advantage of her. Because he was the cause, he wasn’t sure if approaching her or speaking to her would make it better or worse. He was sorry. He was Maker-damned sorry that he’d let everything build up without realizing it, and then let it cascade out and over her when she needed him to help her. Instead of bolstering her upward, he’d played a part in tearing her down.

Revas raised her head from where she’d rested it on her massive paws and looked at him. Then once Malcolm met her eyes, Revas moved them to Líadan then back to him again. When he didn’t respond in words or action, the mabari did it again. Eyes moving from him to Líadan then to him. 

Oh. She was telling him, right then, the appropriate course of action. Revas was a mabari. She was imprinted on Líadan and _knew_ her. Knew what she needed, like Malcolm usually did. 

Apparently, she still needed him. Well, needed him to not be an ass.

With no small amount of trepidation, he walked up behind her. Then he knelt before he cautiously wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gently pulled her back against his chest. Had she shown any resistance at all, he would have stopped and moved away. But she didn’t. She relaxed into him and allowed him to hold her, tucking her head under his chin.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Her breath hitched as she grappled for the ability to talk without giving away that she’d cried. It took a few tries, but eventually she prevailed long enough to speak. “I do want her.”

He started and shifted his head enough to look down at her in puzzlement. Of all the things he’d expected, he hadn’t expected her to admit that. Ever. Honestly, ever.

After she inhaled, regaining more control, she said, “Part of the guilt—most of it, maybe—is because I do want her. If I really think about it, I _know_ I do. And I want to be happy about it, but if I deny myself that freedom, it’s a kind of punishment for betraying my people, not only for having a human child, but for _welcoming_ one. Then I deny her, and you, my true feelings. Some of your own, too, because you won’t let yourself feel any joy over her unless I do.” With her sleeve, she swiped angrily at the tears left on her cheeks. “I wish it weren’t so complicated, and with how we are now, there’s never truly a way it can be simple. So maybe the demon searches for realities that could make things simple, so that we could be happy.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t.”

“That explains why I was Dalish in one dream. That would definitely simplify things.”

“Or if I were human.”

Both were immutable, and they both knew it. “But if either were true,” he said, “neither of us would be the people we are.”

She nodded. “I know. I’ve said as much.”

“And so here we are.”

“Yes. Here we are, fighting with each other because we can’t fight against anything else.”

“I’m sorry for being an ass.”

Her body shook and he heard a breath of laughter. “If you weren’t occasionally an ass, you wouldn’t be who you are.” She turned in his arms, a smile curling the corner of her mouth. “I had full knowledge of that, and yet I still bonded with you, ass and all.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you liked my ass.”

“It’s quite nice, I admit.”

Relief at seeing her playfulness return, at knowing they weren’t broken, caused him to chuckle. Then chuckles swiftly became a full out fit of needed laughter, and Malcolm fell backwards onto the rug, unable to remain sitting. Líadan fell with him, landing halfway on top of him as she gave into her own welcome laughter. She stopped when their faces neared, and then closed the distance to press her lips softly to his. 

His entire body relaxed as relief took complete hold. She was reassuring him that they would be all right, that since he forgave her, he was certainly forgiven for not being perfect. Once he began to return the kiss, she changed it, opening her mouth to deepen it, and then after a few moments, tugging at his bottom lip. Things were quickly going in a direction he really hadn’t expected them to. Not that he minded, not at all, but he’d really believed this was something that wouldn’t be happening for a long time, given what had happened with the demon. 

When she broke away and began to impatiently push up his linen shirt in order to get at his bare skin, he stilled her long enough to ask, “Are you sure?”

She had a particularly determined glint to her eyes that gave him the answer before she said it. “Yes.” Then she resumed her work at divesting him of his shirt. “I told you, I’m not letting the demon win.” She smiled as he sat partway up to assist the process, and tugged the shirt over his head to toss it to the side. He hadn’t even finished with the shirt when she’d gone to work on the ties of his breeches. Before he had time to gather his thoughts, he was on his back, she was over him, and he was in her. 

Unlike in her dream with the demon, their child was between them, the swelling covered by the light linen shift Líadan had taken to wearing to bed. It pressed against him when she rocked forward, but he found he didn’t mind, like he’d heard some would when faced with the changed body of their partners. It wasn’t a viewpoint he could understand, because he couldn’t see how he could find her unattractive, especially like this, the very embodiment of power. He wished he could see her uncovered, touch her everywhere, if only she would welcome it.

She tilted her head, following the path of his hands. Then she smiled and paused long enough to remove her shift, exposing the expanse of her abdomen, something she hadn’t done before, because of the reminder it was.

So something _had_ changed. A step of acceptance found in her acknowledgement that she did want their daughter.

He reveled in the opportunity for unhindered exploration, lightly running his fingers over curves exaggerated by her body as it accommodated their child, astonished at how much had changed because of one tiny developing being. Her breasts were larger and heavier. Still sensitive, he knew, but not painful like they’d been earlier on.

Reddish colored lines marked the many areas where her skin had stretched beyond its tolerance. He traced the marks, amazed at how much havoc a growing child wreaked on a woman’s body. How any of them managed to choose to bear a single child, much less more, was beyond him.

“Battle scars,” said Líadan. 

He was inclined to agree. It had certainly been a battle, and he knew the battle was far from over. He marveled at how distinctly powerful she was, in her mind and her body, in her ability to prevail over a distinctly female experience that would send men to cowering in fear. He didn’t have the strength, but _she_ did, and he couldn’t find the right words to express how that made him feel toward her. The flickering from the fire highlighted the fine silvery thread of the necklace she wore, a reminder that this strong woman was his bondmate, had agreed to be and was his partner in all things, and recognizing how much a privilege it was warmed him right through.

She became restless at his easy exploration, some from her own eagerness, the rest because he was being deliberate in how he applied his touch. He _knew_ her, knew which caress to use where, where to skim lightly, where to add more pressure, how to draw a gasp, and he wanted to do all those things, everything to have her remember only him, and not replace any of this that existed between them with whatever corrupt memories the demon might have left. 

Then he found himself gasping and struggling for control, because she knew the very same things about him, and was not shy in using her knowledge on him. As he fought to maintain some sort of rhythm, her body stiffened above him and her hands fell behind her onto his legs to keep from collapsing. He gave in to his inevitable release, his back arching as he pulled her hips flush with his. 

Once his body had relaxed and his breathing calmed, she shifted to lay half next to him and half astride him. As he wrapped one arm around her shoulders, she slung one of hers across his torso while resting her head on his shoulder. In moments like these, he was absolutely certain of their bond, and not just for the most obvious reason—it was more than that. It affirmed their partnership, their ability to communicate and work together, even if sometimes that ability took a while to manifest enough to be effective. With all of that came the certainty that they had chosen rightly in one another as bondmates. 

They hadn’t settled everything between them. Things certainly weren’t wrapped up neatly and tied with a fancy bow, but they had taken a few steps together toward resolution of some kind. 

It was enough for now. It had to be.


	55. Chapter 55

  
“There are places in the Brecilian Forest where the Veil is so thin the difference between awake and dreaming is next to nothing. In one such place, a wood-shaper was born under such unfortunate stars that his mother named him Abelas, which means ‘sorrow.’ And he lived up to his name. He could keep no apprentices, and lost his stock of bows in mishap after mishap, until finally he had nothing. The rest of the clan began to fear that his ill luck would harm them, too, and whispered among themselves of casting him out.

Abelas heard them and resolved to change his luck, and so went into the forest alone to seek a suitable tree from which to make bows.”

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****Líadan sighted her arrow in the early morning light, ignoring the shine from the ice crusted over the mud in the training yard, and ignoring the white plumes of her breath. Footsteps sounded from the side door. She ignored those, too, treating her target practice like she would a direly important winter hunt. Her fingers were verging on numb with cold, her gloves left without fingertips so that she could properly tension and release her bowstring. As the footsteps moving closer, she released the arrow. It sailed in a curved line, adjusted upward for the pull of the earth that always affected arrows, and buried itself just off the center of the target downrange. She cursed at the inaccuracy.

“I would have been thrilled with that shot,” said Rhian. 

“At this point, I’d be thrilled with you being able to just consistently hit the target, which you can’t. I take it you’re out here to practice some sort of magic?”

“No.”

“Better not be archery. I’m really not in the mood for arguments this morning.”

A huff. “Fine. Yes. Bethany said she’d help me with an assignment from Wynne. Something about freezing things so thoroughly that a single blow can shatter them. She said it’s a very powerful spell worth mastering.”

Líadan nodded. “I saw her use it during the Blight. It’s incredibly effective against darkspawn, and is a good one when you’re working with a team. You freeze them while the people wielding blades smash them.” Of course, the aftermath was not so neat. Rather messy and gory when things melted, and they’d often made much greater haste in leaving those battlefields. “You’d do well to learn it.” She really hoped Bethany showed up soon because any sort of conversation Líadan had with Rhian either became a full blown argument or plummeted right into incredibly awkward.

Rhian said nothing as Líadan shot another two arrows, her cluster crawling infinitesimally closer to the center of the target. Then there was a shuffle of feet from Rhian’s direction before she said, “I heard the commotion last night.”

Outwardly, Líadan didn’t react, while inwardly, she swore. “I imagine everyone did.” Mostly because Malcolm had used a smite on her, which had drawn the attention of templars and mages alike.

“Are you...” Another scrape of Rhian’s boots over frozen mud. “Are you all right?”

Líadan nearly missed her shot. This _had_ to be some sort of trick, because this wasn’t at all like the Rhian she’d dealt with over the past months. Since she was fairly certain she wasn’t in the Beyond or in the thrall of a demon, she idly wondered if Rhian were being unduly influenced. “I’m fine,” she said out loud as she nocked another arrow.

“Well, that’s good.”

Creators, but this was strange. Líadan loosed her arrow, and then cast a questioning look over her shoulder. “So who are you and what have you done with Rhian? Because if you’re a demon, I’m telling Shianni, and you’ll want to go right back to the Beyond once she finds out.”

Rhian heaved a sigh. “It was Shianni who told me to be nice. Somehow, it got back to her that I’ve been giving you a hard time and she threw me on the pyre for it. At least Andraste got mercy during her execution. Shianni has no mercy at _all_. Since I really don’t want to stay on my cousin’s bad side, here I am, being nice.”

“You could just not shout or refuse to follow orders. This whole pretending to care when you don’t thing is awkward.” Also prying and uncomfortable, but Líadan didn’t mention those.

“I did actually want to know if you were all right. I don’t hate you. You’re just easy to yell at because you yell right back, like my family does. So it feels familiar, I guess. I don’t know. But Shianni threatened me with awful methods of retribution should I not attempt to change my behavior. So here I am.”

Líadan lowered her bow, mulling over the information. She didn’t exactly recall telling Shianni about Rhian. In passing, she might have mentioned it, but not with the intention of gaining Shianni’s intervention. Líadan had handled plenty of apprentices before Rhian, so dealing with a difficult and recalcitrant Warden had never felt like something she couldn’t handle. Sure, Rhian was particularly _trying_ , but not quite that trying. Plus, this whole thing with her attempting to be nice was rather uncomfortable, at best. “Honestly, I preferred you before. This is just strange.” If she didn’t know better, she would’ve suspected this to be one of the demon’s dreams. 

She mostly knew better. The doubt, however, never entirely left her alone.

“Me, too,” said Rhian. “I can go mostly back to my normal self and we could just not let my cousin know. I mean, I’m sure she’ll find out eventually. Either the staff will talk, or when Nuala comes back, she’ll probably talk. I know you haven’t much mentioned it; Shianni told me as much. So, thanks for that, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose.” Before Líadan returned to her practice, Bethany walked into the yard, followed by Ariane and Oisín. Líadan’s chest constricted slightly at the idea of dealing with her grandfather this morning after such a difficult night.

“I have some guests for you,” Bethany said to Líadan. “They were at the door when I was in the main hall.” She looked over at Rhian. “Are you back to archery, then?”

“I _wish_ to be,” Rhian said after a sideways glance at Líadan. 

Líadan rolled her eyes, picked up one of the extra waiting quivers full of arrows, and handed it to Rhian. “Here, just start throwing them at the target. You’ll probably have better luck.”

Ariane snorted.

Oisín said, “The Mahariel certainly have interesting ideas about training hunters. I hadn’t realized arrow throwing was a technique.”

“And since when have you had a sense of humor?” Líadan asked him.

“He learned from me,” said Ariane, who then turned to Rhian. “If you want, after your lesson with Bethany, I can work with you, see if Ra’asiel techniques work better for you than ones from the Mahariel. Andruil knows, I might be a better teacher than Líadan.”

Rhian grinned in delight, and Líadan nearly rolled her eyes again. She never got smiles from Rhian when it came to archery. Or anything, for that matter. The last time she’d seen Rhian smile, it’d been when they were with Shianni. 

“It might take the better part of an hour,” Bethany said. “Depends on how she takes to primal spells, especially cold. Some people are more handy with things like lightning or fire.”

“I could help, if you’d like,” said Oisín. “It would be nice to practice magic in a city without fear of retribution from templars.”

Bethany gave him a brilliant smile. “That would be wonderful. We’ll use the other practice yard. This way.”

Líadan waited until the other three had disappeared around the corner before she asked Ariane, “Where’s Emrys?” She’d expected to see her grandfather by now since Ariane and Oisín were there, unless he’d gone hunting for Malcolm, which wasn’t entirely out of the question.

“He said he wanted to take a look around the city. Maybe visit the Alienage ‘to satisfy a bit of curiosity.’ He wasn’t entirely specific or forthcoming, and told us to meet him here.”

“And you didn’t tell him it was a bad idea? The city is crawling with Seekers, and those Seekers really aren’t much different from the usual templar. Not when it comes to mages outside their Circles.”

Ariane held up her hands. “I did! Then he got that look in his eye. You should know the look because you get the same one. It’s the one that means there’s no reasoning with you or him. He’d decided he was going to go exploring, and there wasn’t anything we could do to stop him unless we were willing to attempt to physically restrain him. Which, you should note, wouldn’t last very long, and would be very painful on our end when he managed to free himself. So he went.”

Líadan frowned. She didn’t really get like that, did she? Well, maybe. She sighed.

“He’ll be fine,” said Ariane. “He’s managed to avoid capture thus far.”

“Which means his luck is bound to run out.”

“You’re just brimming with optimism this morning, aren’t you?”

She scowled. “I didn’t sleep well.” The few hours before dawn hadn’t yielded much additional rest due to the demon’s relentless attempts at trapping her. His dreams had been ineffective, but still harrowing and tiresome. Then there’d been the matter of her revelation about her daughter, how realizing that she _did_ want her would impact her outlook and everyday life. It made having her both easier and harder.

Ariane, unaware of those things, assumed the cause of lost sleep was more mundane. She gestured toward Líadan’s middle. “The child keeping you up? I remember some of the other hunters griping about losing sleep when they were carrying children. Either they were up all through the night to visit the privy, or their hips or backs hurt when they tried to sleep, or the child was too active for them to sleep through it.”

She wasn’t entirely wrong, Líadan realized. Before the demon had started in with its traps, she’d managed at least four-hour chunks of sleep. And when she’d woken from those longer periods of sleep, she kept finding that she hadn’t turned at all, and the hip of the side she’d been laying on always flared in pain because of it. Some mornings, to her horror, she’d found herself hobbling for the first few minutes out of bed. “I can’t roll over anymore when I’m asleep,” she said out loud. Though Ariane was a friend, she didn’t want to take the chance of the demon’s influence reaching Emrys’ ears. “So when I wake up, my hip feels like it’s on fire from the inside.”

“How much longer will you have to put up with this? It really isn’t making me look forward to when Oisín and I have children.” She lifted a hand. “Which isn’t right now, thank the Creators. With all the turmoil and movement between clans, we thought it best to wait until things are a little more settled.”

“If you end up joining the Mahariel, though I’m not entirely sure Marethari will agree to it, you’ll have to be careful around Sundermount. You and Oisín don’t have the same infertility issues that Malcolm and I were supposed to have, so you could find your plans rapidly changed. You might want to stay away from Oisín until the Mahariel are far away from Sundermount. Just a warning.”

“You don’t think Keeper Marethari will accept aid?”

Líadan shook her head. “No. If she were inclined to accept aid, she would’ve asked for it a long time ago. They’ve been without halla since well before I visited them, and I think they’ve been camped at the base of Sundermount for just as long. In all that time, she’s never sent a message out to the clans requesting halla. And when she exiled Merrill, she never asked other clans for an apprentice, and there aren’t any other elves with the Mahariel who have the Gift. When I was there, she even asked _me_ to become her First, which really shows a twisted kind of desperation.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be that bad of a Keeper if you accepted.”

She raised an eyebrow at her fellow hunter.

Ariane relented. “All right, you would. It just seemed mean to agree without any kind of argument. But, yes. Temperament aside, your magic isn’t strong enough. Have you even learned to heal?”

“No.” She squinted as she went through the many lessons she’d had with Wynne recently. “Wait! Wait, yes. Sort of. I removed a splinter the traditional way, and then managed to heal the tender spot and tiny puncture it left behind. That’s the sum and total of my healing ability after months, collectively years, of trying to learn.”

“I don’t understand how you’re even really a mage. I’ve seen Keeper Emrys’ abilities at work. He’s probably the strongest mage from amongst the Dalish, at least judging from the Keepers and Firsts who were at the Arlathvhen. I don’t understand how magic that strong could become so diluted from grandfather to granddaughter.”

“Maybe his Gift is so strong in the blood that it seeps through when it shouldn’t?” Líadan shrugged, having often wondered the same thing herself and never figured out an answer. “Maybe my mother could have had the same thing, but never experienced anything that triggered her magic to appear in a measurable way. She was very even-keeled, especially compared to my father. So maybe her emotional control was enough that it didn’t strain the hold on the tiny potential for magic.” 

It could’ve been part of why Emrys had been so opposed to her parents bonding. Nuada’s often mercurial moods were a stark contrast to Gwenael’s perpetual calm. Mamae had told Líadan that she and Papa had complimented each other, and it worked for them. But Líadan had inherited her father’s propensity for fits of temper, though her own were much fewer and far between due to her mother’s influence. Still, it stood to reason that if she hadn’t inherited a certain tempestuousness from her father, her magic might never have manifested at all. As, she believed, it should not have. “We’ll probably never know.”

“Your little one stands a very good chance of having the Gift, then,” Ariane said with a hint of sadness, though lacking in the condemnation a Dalish elf normally would have had. “It’s probably not something you want to hear, but with Malcolm’s mother having been a mage...”

“I know. It’s one reason among many that’s made this difficult.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to worry about exile, right? That has to be some sort of relief. Not that the Ra’asiel would’ve stood with the other clans had the votes regarding the Wardens gone the other way, but it must feel better to have the ruling shared by all the clans.”

It did make her feel better, but not by much. Though the ruling was official regarding the Dalish Grey Wardens, it didn’t mean that individuals or the majority of individuals within the clans wouldn’t still hold the belief that an elf bonded to or having a child with a non-elf wouldn’t be deserving of exile. While it might not be punishable, it was still a type of betrayal to their people. Believing something in theory was one thing, but Líadan had no expectations that spending time amongst the Dalish who were not of the Ra’asiel would make her feel welcome. “How did that even manage to pass?” she asked as she put her quiver and the extras away in the storage bin. “I wouldn’t have thought enough clans could be swayed.” Truthfully, she’d thought the majority of Keepers and Firsts would react like Velanna would have. Perhaps not as vocally harsh, but still hold the same belief that, Grey Warden or not, a Dalish always owed her life to the People.

“It looked that way, for a while.” Ariane picked up one of the practice bows the Wardens kept and examined it. “Then Ailís, the hunter who commanded the Dalish troops during the Blight, spoke up. Turned out she had a lot to say and a lot of it good. Especially about how Grey Wardens were necessary for all of Thedas, and they were separate from any of the races they came from, whether it was human, dwarf, or elf. For the Dalish to expect them to follow all the same rules with circumstances so vastly changed from our own would be ridiculous, especially if they had to worry about being exiled from their birth clans by circumstances largely out of their control. After Ailís was done, Keeper Lanaya said her part. Between the two of them, I believe it’s why the clans ruled as they did.”

“I’m surprised Emrys’ influence didn’t sway them in the other direction.”

“As opposed as he was, and is, he wasn’t very vocal about it. Mostly, he just observed and kept his own counsel. Oisín mentioned that Emrys abstained from the final vote due to conflict of interest, being your grandfather.”

She scoffed. “We hadn’t spoken in _years_.”

“Doesn’t change the blood connection. Though every other aspect of a family relationship can be wiped away, the blood remains. Unfortunate, in some cases, but I’m not sure which it is for you and Keeper Emrys. It’s hard to tell. You both—”

Malcolm clattered through the doorway, cutting off Ariane with his noise. It served to draw a glare from her. “Are you entirely without the ability to walk quietly?”

He drew up short and his brow furrowed as he considered the question. “Probably. Or, if I manage to walk all silent-like, I end up forgetting we’re supposed to be quiet and start to talk. Alistair’s the same way. We had to sneak into this place once, during the Blight. We had a bard—Orlesian sneaky-type—leading the way, but we kept forgetting. She nearly killed us herself because we kept nearly getting us all killed. So, yes. Pretty much without said ability, which would also explain why I was never very good on hunts.” As Ariane slowly shook her head, Malcolm focused on Líadan as he gave her the envelope he had in his hand. “Anyway, reason I’m out here is because you got a letter from Kirkwall.” 

Líadan gave him a puzzled look as she took the envelope. “Bit early for messages, isn’t it?”

“I said the same to the messenger. He said it was a rush job from someone powerful in the Merchant’s Guild in Kirkwall, but didn’t know any more than that.” He frowned. “Do you even know someone from the Merchant’s Guild in Kirkwall?”

“In theory, I know someone from Kirkwall. Marethari did say that Merrill had gone there after her exile, but I don’t really see her becoming a merchant.” Though she couldn’t figure why Merrill would be sending her letters _now_ since she hadn’t done so before, and she’d probably known how to reach Líadan if she’d needed or wanted to. The seal on the back was wrong, too. Merrill would have used her personal sigil of a halla for the imprint. This one seemed to be a lantern, possibly. Líadan frowned and rotated it for a better viewing angle. A cat was another possibility, or it was just a blob, because it was rather indistinct. With a sigh, she cracked it open and unfolded it. Her eyes skipped over the content to check on the sender—Anders. She blinked, and then looked up at Malcolm. “It’s from Anders.”

“Anders? Why would he be writing you? He didn’t even say goodbye to you before he up and disappeared.”

“I don’t know.” She noticed how Malcolm didn’t even try to hide his irritation with Anders. Admittedly, she’d been angry with Anders, as well, but the anger had faded over time. Now, she was partly curious about his whereabouts and what he was doing, and mostly concerned. Unless he’d found another group of Grey Wardens, he would be at the mercy of the Chantry. From the things Bethany had mentioned in passing, Kirkwall seemed the worst place to get snatched up by templars. 

Ariane cleared her throat. “You know, I’m going to go see if they’re done with the magic lesson. I’m curious if Rhian’s as bad an archer as you say.”

“I don’t think Andruil herself could make Rhian a good archer,” said Líadan, not feeling a whit of guilt for stating the truth.

She rubbed her hands together. “I do like a good challenge. Just find me when you decide we need to go out searching for Keeper Emrys.” With that, Ariane headed in the direction the mages had gone earlier.

After she’d gone around the corner, Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Líadan. “What’s that about searching for your grandfather?”

Líadan sighed. “When the three of them came into the city this morning, Emrys decided he wanted to go on a tour. Ariane and Oisín didn’t stop him because they were afraid.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Well, if he’s anything like you, I honestly can’t blame them. However, if he doesn’t turn up by midday—or we haven’t heard about him being scooped up by the templars—we might have to go looking for him, like Ariane said.”

“I know.” The curiosity finally getting to her, she opened the letter again to read the contents. Then she read them a second time, just to be sure, though Anders’ careful script was easy to decipher. The message contained in those words, however, was not, mostly because it seemed completely implausible.

Malcolm took a step closer to her, peering down to where she held the letter. “What is it?”

She handed him the letter, too disturbed to say it out loud. 

With a frown, he accepted it and read it. Like she had, he went over it more than once. Then he asked, “Do you think he’s telling the truth? That somehow he happens to know about your little problem in the Fade? That he could fix it?”

“Maybe. He is a spirit healer, so his connection to the Beyond is both stronger and more personal. Spirit healers call on spirits from the Beyond to aid in their healing when they have need of their additional power. Wynne is a spirit healer, too. Maybe one of Anders’ spirits said something to him. Maybe there’s another way to deal with the problem other than the one I told Wynne I wouldn’t do.”

“She asked you to go to Kinloch Hold?”

“She did. I said no.”

“Oh, I bet she never saw that one coming.”

She scowled at him. “I’m not putting one foot inside a place ruled by barbarians who put demons in their apprentices. And I’m certainly not going to trust them _with my life_ in order for them to help me rid myself of a pesky, overly persistent spirit of sloth. I’d rather deal with it myself. Somehow.” Then her scowl focused inward, because she had no idea how to send the demon packing. It kept slipping away before she could kill it, or the dreams it gave her left her too tired to mount a decent offense. When that happened, it was all she could do to drag herself out of the Beyond. The Dalish had rituals for dealing with demons, for even Keepers and Firsts were pursued by them on occasion, but she didn’t have a clan she could trust. Lanaya’s clan would be terribly difficult to find, Marethari would ask for the impossible in return, and Líadan had no intention of telling Emrys. She knew she was already inadequate in his eyes, and she had no wish to prove his assumption true. Her grandfather would not be allowed to see any of her true weaknesses. 

That left her with Anders’ offer. 

“There’s an addendum here, at the end,” said Malcolm, pointing at the bottom of the sheet. “Looks like the kind of blocky script we saw a lot in the Shaperate. Asks for you to bring sunshine, signed by someone named Varric.” He looked up. “Who’s Varric?”

She took back the letter. “A friend of Bethany’s sister, in Kirkwall. He was also one of the dwarves on their Deep Roads expedition. Do you ever listen when Bethany talks?”

“Of course I do. I’m just rubbish at names.” He scratched at his chin, where he’d yet to shave off the stubble he’d grown over the past few days. It meant it had reached the itchy stage, which meant he’d lose his patience and run off to shave before the end of the day. Oghren won silvers off him at least once a month by challenging Malcolm to grow a proper beard. Every time, Malcolm gave it a go, but failed once the itch became unbearable. “Why would he ask you to bring sunshine? Doesn’t he realize you’re in Ferelden? We haven’t any to spare.”

“He means me,” said Bethany as she walked past. “Varric uses nicknames. Sunshine was mine.”

Malcolm’s eyes lit up at the beautiful opportunity for teasing being so readily presented to him. “Aw, that’s just all kinds of adorable. I wonder if he’d be okay with us calling you that.”

Yet, instead of a rejoinder, Bethany only became morose. “I’m not certain it’s a proper name for a Grey Warden.”

“I don’t know. A bit of sunshine in the Deep Roads could make them not seem so dark,” said Malcolm.

Líadan groaned. “Creators, that was awful.”

“May I ask why you’re talking about Varric and my nickname?” asked Bethany, wisely ignoring the horrible joke.

“He added a line to Anders’ letter.” Líadan held up the piece of paper to illustrate.

“Anders wrote you?”

She nodded. “He seems to know something about my problem in the Beyond. He’s offering a solution, but I’d have to go to Kirkwall for it.”

“It seems awfully dangerous,” said Malcolm. “Any of it, especially the bits where you go into the Fade to kill a—”

Líadan held up a hand to cut him off. “You know what? Right here is probably a really bad place for this conversation.” There were too many elves possessing of the very good elven hearing. While they might not intentionally eavesdrop, they would hear things a human normally wouldn’t. There was a possibility either Ariane, Oisín, or Rhian, who hadn’t returned from the other practice yard, could overhear when they did. If that happened, with the intention of helping, one of them was bound to mention it to someone else. However, it wouldn’t be help that she’d welcome, especially if Ariane or Oisín told Emrys. 

One person she did know—and absolutely trusted—who could help her was Alistair. He’d have knowledge almost as good as Thierry’s, plus he’d gone through the same experience at Kinloch Hold that Malcolm had. Added to that, Alistair also wouldn’t be as biased as Malcolm. Líadan hadn’t failed to notice Malcolm’s mounting discomfort with the idea of her attempting to rid herself of the demon by trying to kill it in the Beyond. “How about we move to a more private area?” she asked Malcolm, not wanting to announce her intentions to everyone.

With a wary look, he acceded to her request. Bethany explained that she had to attending a meeting with Wynne and Eleri, and grudgingly also with Jurian, but asked that they give her an update once they figured out what they’d do. Then Líadan set off toward the palace, intent on finding Alistair, and purposefully not engaging Malcolm in conversation lest they get into an argument. She could sense one coming, like any gathering storm. She wanted this demon _out_ of her dreams, and he feared for her safety if she made the attempt. While he hadn’t yet come out and said so, his subtle objections were slowly becoming rather unsubtle in their clarity. 

“Where are we going?” he asked as they walked through the main gallery of the palace. “Because the palace wasn’t exactly what I pictured when you mentioned moving to a more private area.”

“To find your brother and speak with him.”

“Why? Already going to ask about Kirkwall?” Apparently, Malcolm was not on the same page as she was regarding the avoidance of arguments.

“I don’t know. I did think it would help to get his opinion since he used to be a templar and I trust him much more than I do Thierry. Not that I don’t trust Thierry, but Alistair is... Alistair. There’s a difference.”

“Alistair is just as much a brother to you as Fergus; that’s probably what you mean.”

She smiled up at him. He had the right of it, and she hadn’t really thought about it enough to put it into those terms. When Fergus had given her the heirloom necklace on the night of her bonding with Malcolm, and called her ‘little sister,’ she’d realized how much she appreciated having an older brother like Fergus had been and now truly was to her. Alistair was the same, especially now that he finally knew that he was her brother-in-law. “He is.”

He finally caught on to her will to not get into another argument, and kept quiet for the rest of the time it took to catch up with Alistair. When Warrick let them into the solar, Alistair immediately rose and chased out the two banns meeting with him. Then the steward followed the two nobles out, closing the door solidly behind him.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your visits,” said Alistair as soon as the door had shut, “but what kind of trouble are you bringing in? Because I’ve already had a long day and it isn’t even mid-morning. The chamberlain woke me up squawking about Seekers bothering him at all hours, and then Seeker Cassandra shouting at him at dawn. Guess who had to have a chat with Seeker Cassandra before he’d even had breakfast this morning? That’d be me. So please, please tell me that you haven’t done anything that will make people yell at me, whine at me, plead with me, or otherwise cause me mountains of paperwork, because I might cry.”

Líadan almost turned around and walked out when she saw the pleading nature of his look. Alistair really had already had a bad day, and her news was only going to make it worse. But she really had no other choice unless she wanted to chat with Thierry about it—which she didn’t—and in the end, she’d have to talk to Alistair, regardless. “You might want to sit down,” she said to him.

“Damn, I knew it,” said Alistair. Then he dropped into one of the armchairs, a sulk already working its way to his face. “All right, lay it on me. I can take it.”

Well, he’d asked. “There’s a demon after me in the Beyond.”

He sat halfway back up. “What? Are you serious? I thought they didn’t bother chasing you.”

“This is the first one. I’d like to be rid of it.”

“Understandably. Well, best method is to confront the demon by getting into the Fade via a method other than normal dreaming. Requires the use of lyrium and a whole bunch of mages, or a blood sacrifice. Since we aren’t much the blood magic using types, that means lyrium and mages, which means the Circle tower. Fancy a trip to Kinloch Hold?”

She stared at him. He knew better. He knew she wouldn’t be able to stand it there for minutes, much less the hours it would take to deal with the demon. “Alistair.”

He sighed. “All right, I can see how that could go all sorts of wrong. But it isn’t like we’ve any other choice.”

“Do demons get bored and wander off?” asked Malcolm. “Because we could always hope for that if they do.”

Alistair slowly sank back into the chair. “Rage and desire demons are known to be very distractible. By, you know, rage and desire.”

“It’s a sloth demon,” said Líadan.

“Oh, those’ll stay put until someone gives them a good shove. It’s a momentum thing.”

Malcolm grumbled. “What about just plain old waiting?”

“Until the child is born?” Alistair turned to Líadan again. “How long would it be?”

She shrugged. “Wynne says anywhere from one to two months. None of us know, not exactly.”

“Either way, that’s too long. Too much danger for the both of you. Eventually, you’ll get tired—even just from giving birth, if nothing before—and the demon will give up on you extending an invitation, so to speak, and force his way through the door to kick out your soul, instead.” Alistair scowled. “Or the child’s. I mean, were it just you and no baby involved, I’m fairly certain you could outlast the demon, even if it tried to possess you by force. But I know being pregnant makes you exhausted—and don’t look at me like that until you can withstand a smite again to immediately punch the one responsible for it in the face—and that exhaustion could do you in.” It was his turn to shrug. “I suppose, maybe, if you got a lot of rest...” 

“So we’ll do that,” said Malcolm.

Líadan didn’t bother hiding her glare. “I don’t want to take that chance.” She’d gone years without falling to a demon, and she wasn’t about to start. 

Malcolm stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to discern what her reasoning was to make it so opposed to his.

“So, if you aren’t going to work with the Circle mages, but you still want to get rid of the demon, what’s your plan?” asked Alistair. “Is it the Dalish? Or something else?”

“Anders,” said Líadan. “He wrote. He knows how it happened and how to fix it, but we have to go to Kirkwall to do it. Something about the people he needs to meet all the requirements for the ritual are all located in or around Kirkwall.”

“Where the Veil is thin as a beggar, to borrow a term from Dane,” said Malcolm. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’ve made that perfectly obvious.” Líadan’s resolve to avoid a fight was rapidly fading at her bondmate’s staid determination to start one. “However, you aren’t the one being hounded by a demon, so it isn’t your choice.” 

As Malcolm blinked in his outrage, mustering a rejoinder, Alistair looked between the two of them before saying, “I see you’re both clearly on the same page.”

Malcolm ignored him. “Look, I didn’t say it wasn’t your choice, or even that I’d stop you. I just... I have a bad feeling about it. I mean, the thin Veil in Kirkwall was how we got into this mess.”

“That was at Sundermount. It can’t be that thin in Kirkwall, not with a Circle there. I’m not risking this demon taking me over and hurting my clan. I’m not risking—” The very _thought_ of the demon taking her child by force twined a choking fear around her throat that wouldn’t allow her to say the fear out loud. “I’m not.”

He crossed his arms. “Fine.” But he didn’t meet her gaze.

“It obviously isn’t.”

“It’s enough that I’ll withhold my objections.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ll withhold from saying them out loud, you mean.”

Alistair loudly cleared his throat to draw their attention. Once he had it—rather begrudgingly—he said, “Not that it isn’t a relief to see you two do still have knock-down, drag-out fights on occasion, but there isn’t much choice here. Unless it would be entirely safe for the babe to be born in the next couple weeks—”

“No,” said Líadan. “Wynne said a month would be the earliest that would be even remotely safe, and even that would be risky.” Now that she knew she _wanted_ this child, no matter the guilt involved, she was even more determined to keep her safe. If that meant fighting a demon in the Beyond so it couldn’t possess her or her child, so be it. It wasn’t just her at risk, and it wasn’t just her unborn child, either. Her clan would be, too. If she or the child were forcibly possessed, it would put others in danger. Her bondmate, however trying he was being at the moment, her brothers-in-law, her sister-in-law, Wynne, her fellow Wardens—too many people to risk on waiting.

Alistair nodded. “So, there you go. Someone has to go into the Fade and kill the demon. Since you won’t work with the Circle, haven’t got mages you entirely trust with the Dalish because Lanaya’s out of reach, you’ve only one option left.” Alistair leaned forward in his chair. “When do you leave for Kirkwall?”

Líadan glanced over at Malcolm. When he met her gaze, his ready objections made his eyes lively with want to say them. Then he gave a half-shrug and a small, dismissive wave. She held in a sigh. He agreed, but not really, and the argument she’d been attempting to avoid, admittedly with little success, would still happen. Just not right at that moment. She turned to Alistair. “It depends on what sort of trouble you’ll want from the Seekers. We can easily slip by their patrols, but that will leave trouble for you afterward.”

Alistair drew his confused look away from his brother to focus on Líadan. “You know, you could just ask Seeker Cassandra for permission and avoid the whole annoying them bit.”

She lifted a brow. “Because telling the Seekers I need to go to Kirkwall to visit a friend who will help me kill a demon determined to possess me seems like a good idea?”

“Well.” He frowned. “Not when you put it that way.”

“You could just tell her you’re visiting a friend and stop there,” said Malcolm.

“Because she’ll absolutely think that’s a good reason to give permission,” said Líadan. Honestly, if he didn’t want to help plan, he didn’t have to, but if he was going to come up with ideas for taking their leave, he could at least attempt to not half-ass it. She didn’t say her thoughts out loud, but she did shoot him a look of exasperation.

Malcolm sighed and looked out the window.

She resisted growling. Creators, they hadn’t disagreed like this in a long time. She’d forgotten how tiring it could be, and it was far from over. 

“Right, so,” Alistair said, cautiously glancing between the two of them, “Ferelden has a lot of refugees over there. Said refugees might want revenge on the darkspawn who chased them from their homes and killed family members. Might find some good recruits in that population. I bet Hildur would be interested in sending someone.”

There was enough truth to it that it was a decent cover. However, they would need a safe way to travel there; going alone would be too dangerous. As much as she disliked the idea of traveling with Emrys, good sense told her she had to. “The Suriel clan is going to Sundermount, which is near Kirkwall, as you know,” she said to Alistair. “Ariane mentioned they’ve run across darkspawn in their travels. They might welcome the added protection of Grey Wardens.”

Líadan and Alistair fell silent as they considered the idea, while Malcolm continued his quiet.

Then Alistair said, “She’ll see right through it.”

“Yes,” said Líadan. 

“Well, you could just leave. Urgent mission and all, and then have Hildur deal with her after you’ve gone. Meanwhile, I’m none the wiser.”

“It might be the best option.”

He smiled. “I’m good at pretending to be clueless.”

“So it’s settled then?” Malcolm asked as he abruptly stood up. “Yes? Right. You two can hash out the details all you want. I’m going to go write a message to Hildur and get that sent out so she’s prepared.” He opened his mouth to say more, but then bit off whatever he was going to say. His lips pressed in a hard line to hold back on talking, he left the room without waiting for replies. 

Alistair blinked in puzzlement as the door shut, and then looked at Líadan. “Wow, he _really_ doesn’t like the idea of you going to Kirkwall. Or going to Anders. Or fighting that demon in the Fade. Or everything right now, really.”

Líadan studied the door for a long moment before she turned to answer. “I’m not changing my mind, Alistair. Whatever risk he thinks this is in trying to get rid of the demon, there’s still greater risk in _not_ trying. He’s never experienced this. He hasn’t spent years of his life living with the fear in the back of your mind that, one day, a dark-minded spirit could take over your body and hurt or kill everyone you care about. I have a chance to fight it effectively, and I’m taking it. Not just for my own protection, but the protection of everyone I care for, _including_ him, as frustrating as he might be. He’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Oh, he’s dealing with it. Rather poorly, however.” Alistair slouched in his chair, an elbow on the armrest, and his chin propped in his hand. “He’s been better at dealing with these things. He’s done a good job with running the compound. He did well at the Landsmeet and later, when confronting Eamon about you and Meghan Vael. He took Gunnar’s death far better than I’d imagined. He’s been handling Cáel being at the Vigil instead of here with a remarkable steadfastness, as have you. He even came out all right after his Seeker interrogation. You’d think this demon thing would fall into the same...” His eyebrows went up in realization. “Oh. You know, I think he might’ve reached his limit when it comes to highly stressful life events. Just a thought.”

She leaned back in her own chair, crossing her arms over her middle. She understood Alistair’s point, even empathized. It wasn’t as if she weren’t on the razor’s edge of falling apart, herself. Actually allowing tears to fall last night was a clear sign of such. The problem was that she really did need him to be her partner in all of this, because like it or not, she needed the help. She hated the very idea of requiring someone else’s support in order to keep from breaking down under everything, but that’s what a bondmate was _for_. While she granted that it was fair for him to need the same thing, if they both went to pieces, they’d be in trouble. If they were arguing, though it hadn’t yet escalated to shouting, they were without a united front. With Emrys now around, and the prospect of traveling with an entire Dalish clan for a few weeks, it was a horrible time to appear fractured. Emrys would not hesitate to take advantage and use it as a wedge to drive them apart. 

She sighed. “I’ll give him that. But the thing is, it’s _my turn_ , and he’s taken it.”

“You take turns with these things?”

“If we don’t, we’ll both fall.”

Alistair lounged in his chair and stretched out his legs in front of him. “I remember when I first arrived at Ostagar, I was amazed at the architecture. Before that, I’d never really had the chance to see Tevinter architecture in all its might, aside from the Circle tower on Lake Calenhad. I stared at everything. Even though the fortress was half ruins, it still stood.”

“You have a point, I assume? Or are you just rambling like you do?”

“I have a point. Give me a moment. This is my story.” He smiled, letting her know that he wasn’t irritated, but he did want her to listen. When she fell silent, he continued, adding in gestures with his hands. “So there was a peculiar formation I happened to see. Two of the larger towers really should have collapsed entirely. However, when they fell, they’d fallen in such a way that they collapsed into each other, and somehow, it kept them both standing. For centuries, I’d imagine, given the weathering. So, there you go. Perfectly safe for you both to fall apart, just so long as you lean on each other in the process.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You could’ve just said so in the first place.”

“Well, of course I could. But I never get to tell stories like that, like Wynne gets to do. I can see why she does it all the time. It’s fun.”

Líadan sighed again. “I suppose I need to go hunt him down. Whether we yell or speak civilly, we do need to talk about this before we go to Kirkwall. Being with the Suriel will be difficult.” Then she slowly got to her feet, the bulk of her middle throwing off her balance, and the positioning of the weight making it difficult to regain. 

Alistair quickly stood and held out his hand. “Come on. Take it.”

She glared at his hand like it would bite her. “I can stand on my own.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t be nice, and it doesn’t mean you can’t accept my help.” He grinned despite their new troubles added on to the constant old ones. “I’m your brother now. It’s what brothers are for, right? So, suck it up, mighty Dalish woman, and let me help you.”

With an audible grumble, she accepted his aid and let him help her to her feet. Once she was standing, he pulled her into a hug before she could escape. She allowed it, and even felt herself slightly relaxing. He was her brother-in-law, and loved her like a brother of her blood. He understood her, and he understood Malcolm. More often than not, in times like these, he was a bridge between them when they couldn’t see eye to eye. Alistair was also very good at being comforting.

“See? Not so bad. Now,” he said, holding her by the shoulders when she moved half a step away, “you go see about putting my younger brother in his place. You’re doing this to protect yourself and everyone you love. I understand that, and I saw it before you even explained it. He needs to understand it, too, even if you have to use a stick to get through to him.”

“All right.” She headed for the door, but stopped when she had her hand on the knob. Then she turned and asked, “When did you become so adept at dispensing advice?”

“Oh, that? Learned it from Fergus.”

His chuckles followed her out the door.


	56. Chapter 56

“At last, he spied a young rowan growing beside a stream. He drew his axe, and the tree cried out in fear, begging to be spared. But Abelas said, ‘If I do not take your life, mine will surely end.’ With two strokes, he felled the tree. From the tree, he made the finest three bows he had ever crafted. Pleased, Abelas returned to camp and gave his bows to the hunters at once.” ****

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

****Malcolm said nothing to the recruits and Wardens who’d started the usual gathering in the main hall before the midday meal. Avoiding eye contact, he strode straight up to his office to write the letter to Hildur so he could send it off with a messenger before the day was out. He hadn’t been lying; he really did need to let Hildur know.

Of course, the necessity wasn’t so dire that he’d _had_ to leave to write it at that moment, but he hadn’t wanted to argue, and remaining in the room with Líadan and Alistair would have guaranteed it. He couldn’t quite pin down exactly why he was so angry over the entire plan of people, including Líadan, entering the Fade to slay the demon after her. He knew it was wrong. He knew he should be supportive and helpful because, Holy Maker, there was a sodding demon after his wife, and anyone in her shoes would be incredibly panicked, and rightly so.

Because there was a demon.

Sodding demons, sodding Fade, sodding nobility, sodding Landsmeet, sodding Divine, sodding Seekers and Knight-Vigilant, sodding couldn’t see his son, hadn’t seen his son in sodding weeks, sodding templars had killed his mabari, sodding Sundermount and Riordan and meddling and complications and Dalish, and now on top of every other sodding thing, there was a demon. Because, why not? Sodding _Andraste_ , it was a never ending horde of hurt.

Malcolm crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it. When that wasn’t enough, he tossed the quill after it, but that was even more unsatisfying because it didn’t even reach the wall, much less hit it with any satisfying amount of force.

Obviously, it was time to go hit things, because he’d never finish the letter if he kept crumpling paper and throwing quills, and that inkwell was beginning to look awfully tempting. Right. Training yard it was. Except he had none of his usual sparring partners for these moods available. Alistair was still with Líadan, Fergus getting ready to go back to Highever with Meghan Vael because of Eamon’s sodding meddling, Thierry was off at the chantry, and Oghren was... he wasn’t sure where Oghren was. Oh, right. Everyone else was eating. 

Malcolm grabbed a practice sword from the bucket and headed for the pell—the stout, thick, wooden pole driven into the ground by the Wardens who’d built the compound, for use with sword training. Mostly, you hit it with the wooden practice sword, and sometimes a practice shield. Seemed a decent substitute for his missing brothers. He started in with a straight, aggressive attack before settling into a flurry of forms that all ended in hard hits on the straw-filled cloth padding wrapped around the post. As his mind shifted from its focus on every overwhelming thing going on in the rest of his life to focus on his swordplay, he began to incorporate footwork and shifting angles of attack. It brought all his thoughts to bear on just training, just forms, just whacking the stuffing out of the pell.

Which was why he didn’t hear Oghren’s approach, and had no idea how long Oghren had been there once Oghren finally cleared his throat and asked, “Finally get to ya?”

“What?” Malcolm didn’t break off his practice. Oghren was used to conversing over the thuds of wooden swords on the post.

“You know, stuff. All the stuff piling up. Great sodding big pile, too.”

No, he didn’t want to think about it. “I don’t know.”

Oghren wasn’t deterred. “I got to admit, took you longer to break than anyone thought. You just kept marching right along like any Stone-taken Legionnaire, putting more and more in your pack as you went. Well, up until it tipped you arse over keg and landed you in the lava you were avoiding.”

“I’m not... whatever it is you think I am.” Oghren really did come up with ingenious metaphors. Sometimes, they required more brainpower to dismantle than Malcolm was willing to devote, especially when Oghren had a point to get across that Malcolm didn’t want to face.

“You mean a young blighter who’s weathered more shit than a bronto-wrangler leading from the rear? No, ‘course not. Wouldn’t know from what I see in the mirror.”

It took Malcolm a little while to work that one out. 

Oghren took his silence as answer enough. “Well, when you patch yourself up, you know where to find me.”

That halted Malcolm mid-swing. Oghren never turned down a chance to spar. Malcolm slowly turned and asked, “You aren’t going to fight?”

“Nope. My axe isn’t the thing you need to chat with. I’ll share ale with you later, though. You might need it.” Then before Malcolm could say anything else, Oghren strode back into the building.

Entirely too confused by his conversation with his friend, Malcolm renewed his attacks on the pell. After a little while, judging from the noise of boots tromping through dirt and grass behind him, lunch was over. He kept at his practice, but expected a challenge for sparring to come from one of the many Wardens or recruits. 

Nome came. No one would spar with him, which was a first. Usually, people had small—or not so small—grudges because of his habit of talking before thinking. This propensity of his led to others practically lining up to smack him senseless in the training yard. Yet, today, when he wanted to go more than a few rounds, there were no takers. No volunteers. He even started to glance over to the other side of the fence. Some of the passers-by he knew very much wanted to beat him over the head with a stick, and yet they had all left without hopping into the ring to do so. When the sounds of Wardens walking by died away, it left Malcolm entirely confused, and by himself once more. So, he renewed his bladework with the post, and allowed himself to be submerged in the flow of footwork.

Being left alone didn’t last for long. 

“Need I set you on fire, young man?”

Malcolm _did_ jump this time, because the man who’d approached him unawares was Emrys. He spun and let his sword drop to his side. “I’m sorry?”

Emrys stood absolutely still. “That was not a no.”

He really didn’t want to argue with Emrys again, especially when he was in this sort of mood, because it almost guaranteed he’d be set on fire, or worse, and would probably deserve it at that point. However, Emrys also seemed to have a knack for not making sense at first to whoever was unlucky enough to come under his scrutiny. Malcolm was disinclined to play those sorts of games. “Usually, a no is a given when it comes to being asked to be set on fire. But since there seems to be some sort of confusion—no. No one needs to set me on fire.” _Yet._

Emrys’ mouth turned down in such a slight frown that Malcolm wasn’t entirely sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. “My granddaughter is upset.”

“And you automatically blame me?” Because plenty of other people had the ability to upset Líadan. While Malcolm did acknowledge he had a particular talent for it, it still stood that it wasn’t always him.

“The human? Yes.”

Malcolm ground his teeth together. It didn’t help that Emrys was correct about this time. It was largely Malcolm’s fault, but that didn’t mean the Keeper’s assumption was right. “You could be just as liable for it as me, you know.” He almost told Emrys to set himself on fire, but managed to stop short of vocalizing the thought.

“Perhaps. Yet, I do not believe the fault lies with me in this instance.”

“You have a point, I take it?” Maker, his sense of self-preservation had clearly taken a holiday, and without informing him.

“I do.” Emrys’ frown became obvious when it briefly darkened the rest of his face before it reverted to his look of haughty neutrality. “Let her go before you do more damage than you already have.”

Emrys’ words struck him like a wave from the frigid southern seas. Malcolm couldn’t imagine her gone. Even if he tried to ‘let her go,’ she would stay. If she truly did want to leave, she would do so instead of remaining to hash things out. And if he ever truly believed that she wished to leave, he wouldn’t hold her back. He would dearly want to, but she had free will as much as he did. If she was not compelled to stay here with him of her own free will, he wouldn’t see her caged. “She won’t go,” he said out loud.

“I am aware.”

Malcolm wondered if Keepers were specifically trained in their infuriating way of not answering, yet answering. Would it kill them to give a straight answer? “What do you want from me?”

“For you to go away. For you to solve the problem that you are. For you to recognize that you do not matter, because you are not _elvhen_ , and leave my granddaughter to her people, where she belongs.”

If Malcolm hadn’t already believed that Líadan’s grandfather didn’t like him, it was now more than clear. Emrys couldn’t stand him. Too bad. “I’m not going away.”

Emrys seemed unaffected by Malcolm’s refusal. “Then continue upsetting her, if you must. She will leave of her own accord.”

Honestly, Malcolm would rather Emrys just beat him up or something. Possibly even set him on fire, because the Keeper’s method of warfare on the mind was a lot more insidious. “I think you underestimate how stubborn she is.” Though he was mostly concentrating on his argument with Emrys, something tickled at the back of his mind, feeling enough like approaching darkspawn that his fingers tightened on his sword grip. He’d just have to hope Emrys didn’t take it as a threat. Malcolm might feel ambivalent about Emrys at best, but he didn’t want to hurt or kill him. 

If the Keeper noticed, he didn’t outwardly react. “I believe you do not truly know what it means to be Dalish.”

“Of course I don’t. Because, as you nicely pointed out, I’m not—”

“You know,” came Oghren’s rumbling voice as he approached the fence, “this would be over faster if you took ‘em out of their scabbards and measured. Just saying.” Oghren, not bothering to wait for replies, continued right over their shocked looks. “Any rate, we got visitors. Now, before you panic, they aren’t the mage-herders. Hunters. Whatever. Not them. It’s more elves. Whole lot of ‘em, and most of them are in a bad way.”

“What kind of bad way?” Malcolm asked while Emrys studied the dwarf next to him.

“The taint kind of bad way, which would explain why you’re about to stomp out of here to find the darkspawn you think you sense.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it would.”

“Yep. Not darkspawn. Elves, so you can stand down.”

Emrys finally glanced up from his study of Oghren to look at Malcolm. “The group that trailed my clan here are those who were recently tainted during the ill-fated settlement attempt of the lands surrounding Ostagar. They were kept alive and the taint at bay for some time using ancient magic, but such magic has limits, and they have reached it. When the decision of the clans at the Arlathvhen was announced regarding Dalish Grey Wardens being an accepted clan of their own, those who accompanied us here declared their wish to join the Wardens instead of accepting their fate of death without attempting the cure.”

Malcolm had assumed all Dalish Keepers knew what the Joining, and being a Grey Warden, really entailed, since they seemed to know pretty much everything. “It isn’t—”

“A cure? Of course not. However, if successful, it prolongs death long enough to live some sort of life. Middling is better than short, and these Dalish would like a chance at it.”

“We can grant them that,” said Malcolm. It suddenly became easier to speak with Emrys when the subject was dry, rote Wardening and nothing more. “I can plan a Joining ceremony for tonight. How many are there?”

“Twenty, at last count.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “A large Joining, then. But they’ll have to go up to Vigil’s Keep, soon. Hildur does the proper training and sends folks back down to Denerim when they’re ready. It would probably help if those who make it stay together, anyway.” It would also make a good cover for leaving Denerim, he realized. They could move on from the Vigil to Kirkwall instead of returning to the capital right after. 

Except he didn’t _want_ to go to Kirkwall. Well, no, not exactly. He didn’t want Líadan to have to go to Kirkwall in order to enter the Fade so she could kill the demon after her. He didn’t want her life put at risk in a place where he couldn’t even follow in an attempt to try to protect it—even though she didn’t need the protection, not quite. But he wanted to be there to try, just as she’d do the same for him if she could.

Andraste’s britches, but this was infuriating. He wrestled his temper into submission as best he could, though judging by Oghren’s look, it was far from the best of his attempts. Then he said, “Oghren, could you please help Keeper Emrys with gathering the unfortunate recruits in the main hall? I need to go hunt down Rhian. She hasn’t helped with a Joining or taken responsibility for any recruits yet, and I think it’s time she did.”

Oghren grunted his assent and motioned Emrys into the compound.

Malcolm went in search of Rhian, hoping that she wasn’t working with Bethany or Ariane—or, Maker forbid, both of them—because they would most likely want to speak with him, and not nicely. He already knew Ariane was protective of Líadan, and Bethany had slowly become so, as well. And if Emrys knew Líadan was upset, that meant she’d returned to the compound from her visit with Alistair, which meant Ariane and Bethany would know what happened. He didn’t imagine they’d be pleased with him.

He came across Rhian first, and quickly sent her to see Oghren to find out the details on what she needed to do. He figured if he told her fast enough, he could find someplace to keep away from Ariane and Bethany until it was safe, whenever that would be. Unfortunately for him, Bethany and Ariane walked around the corner right after Rhian disappeared into the compound. 

“You’d think after she’s had two Dalish hunters try to teach her the Way of the Bow, she’d get it,” Ariane was saying to Bethany. 

Bethany shrugged in imitation of Rhian. “What, get a bad impression of Dalish hunters? That they’re horrible teachers, have no patience, and absolutely no senses of humor?”

Ariane sighed. “It would be funny, except it’s exactly what she thinks.” Then she halted when she noticed Malcolm standing there, about to walk into the compound.

Judging from their darkening expressions, he was pretty damn sure they were both not happy with him.

They weren’t.

Bethany immediately petrified his feet, immobilizing him. When he instinctively started to move his hands to perform a cleanse, she petrified his arms, too. Did they really think he’d run from them?

Bolt, more like, fast as his feet could carry him. Bethany was a very skilled mage, and Ariane a very skilled Dalish hunter. They could do things to him. Very bad things, especially while at their mercy, which he was now.

“You’ve upset one of my close friends,” Ariane said. “I don’t know how, and at the moment, I don’t much care. If I didn’t have fifty different things to do right now, I’d kick your ass.” She stepped closer to him, as much into his face as she could get, and her anger made her seem equal to his height even though she was a head shorter. “Fix it.” For emphasis, she jabbed him in the chest with her index finger, hard enough that Malcolm was certain it would leave a bruise. Ariane’s voice rose to beyond menacing. “Fix it, or I will take it upon myself to fix that stupid human head of yours.” With that, she spun on her heel and stalked into the compound. 

Malcolm’s chest still hurt where she’d poked him.

Bethany had remained behind, her arms crossed, and her irritation with him not having faded. Her scowl hadn’t softened, but in her eyes there was a certain amount of pleading for him to come around. “She has a demon after her,” Bethany said softly, which cut far more than the loud, harsh words Ariane had spoken. “One would think you would have a little more sympathy for someone who wanted to kill the demon after them.”

But he did have sympathy. He _did_. “I do.”

“Then you’re doing a horrible job of showing it. You remind me of my brother Carver.”

He frowned slightly. “The templar?”

The pleading left her eyes, hardening back into anger. “Yes, the templar. So think on that.” Then, without waiting for a reply from him, turned to follow Ariane’s path. Before she went into the compound, she waved over her shoulder, ending her spell.

Though his limbs had been freed, Malcolm didn’t move. He had no idea how long it would take to sort things out, and he had to sort out his own head first before he could even attempt to with Líadan. However, he had a Joining to organize, and all the tasks that came afterward with the Wardens who survived. Even delegation of many of the tasks still took up a lot of time. He needed to get started, unable to afford dedicating time to fixing his personal life until his professional one was taken care of. After dumping the practice sword in the bin, he headed for the compound to prepare for the Joining.

Fifteen survived. 

Considering they’d started with twenty, it was a decent survival rate. Amongst the Wardens who’d gotten through the Joining was a former First who went by the name of Perran. Emrys had already discussed with the younger Dalish about becoming the equivalent of the Keeper for the Dalish Wardens, since they still didn’t have one. Malcolm wasn’t sure how that would work out when it came to the chain of command, but he figured it was something Perran could discuss with Hildur since the new Dalish Wardens would be dropped off at Vigil’s Keep. 

The other Wardens had aided in helping the slowly waking new Wardens to the kitchens for food, and then to their bunks. Malcolm was still left with the five bodies of the elves who hadn’t lived through the Joining. Because they were tainted, the dead would have to be burned, which directly opposed Dalish funeral custom. Malcolm fully expected an argument from Emrys and the other non-Warden Dalish. He didn’t look forward to telling telling him, but it had to be done. So, he strode over to the Keeper, who’d been brought in after the ceremony had concluded.

“After you have burned their bodies,” Emrys said right after Malcolm delivered the news, “I would ask that you return their ashes to me so that my clan and I can give them a proper Dalish burial.”

Malcolm stared at him.

“Custom sometimes must give way to practicality,” said Emrys.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. He could definitely think of another situation that called for practicality over custom.

Emrys frowned. “And don’t you be getting any ideas, young man.”

So, Malcolm, Oghren, Thierry, and Rhian constructed a pyre in a secluded corner of the yard that had been designated for the purpose, and began the task to reducing the bodies to ash. After failing several times to start the fire the traditional way, Rhian growled and used magic.

“‘Bout time,” said Oghren. “No use in letting that kind of talent go to waste.”

“You say the same about the workers at the Pearl,” said Thierry.

“Aye. Talent is talent.” 

Their charges safely in bed, the rest of the veteran Wardens joined them outside, giving whatever prayers they had to those five Dalish who’d been Wardens for mere seconds before the taint took them. Malcolm, as he had all night, barely made eye contact with Líadan. He didn’t want her to think he was angry at _her_ , not when truly he was angry with the situation, not directly at her. But he knew that anger appeared as only that when it came to dark expressions, and didn’t want her to assume. Of course, that meant she’d begin thinking of other reasons for his unwillingness to maintain eye contact, yet he hadn’t much other choice. 

The problem with acknowledging the trouble between him and Líadan was that it meant acknowledging the sodding demon. And with acknowledging the demon came acknowledging the very real threat it, and the idea of getting rid of it, presented. He didn’t want to face that threat. It made him... he wasn’t sure what it made him, but whatever it was filled him with a furious energy that he couldn’t seem to successfully expel.

Keeper Emrys wandered out, accompanied by Oisín, and helped speed up the pyre’s burn. Magically aided, it took merely an hour to reduce the Dalish bodies to ash. The Keeper and the First cooled them, and then gathered them up. Once done, they solemnly bid farewell for the night and headed out of the compound and the city to bury the ashes in the forests of the surrounding area. Ariane and the other non-tainted Dalish who’d helped bring the tainted Dalish to the Wardens followed them out. Eventually, the rest of the Wardens wandered off to sleep, a long day having stretched past midnight. For a moment, he thought Líadan would approach him, after she’d glanced at him a few times. Before she could try, he swiftly made his way inside.

And still, even at the end of an eternal, exhausting day, Malcolm was too keyed up to even to consider going to bed. Not to mention that he hadn’t found the courage to speak with his wife out of want to avoid the argument he knew they’d get into. The signs were clearer than the Blight clouds that once loomed on the southern horizon after Ostagar. Having already ensconced himself in his study long enough to complete all the accompanying paperwork that went along with a new Joining, he was left with nothing else official to do, which was where he’d started.

So, off to the training yard he went, despite the hour. Maybe if he kept at the pell, he could pass out from exhaustion and avoid deciding what to do.

Which was, when it came down to it, the coward’s way out. He wasn’t comfortable with the realization, but there it was.

Turned out, Líadan had far more courage than he did. He had no idea how long he’d been practicing in the yard when she came looking for him. Nor did he know how long she’d watched him before she made her presence known. “Are you coming to bed?” she asked. There was no hostility in her voice, yet it wasn’t soft, either. Annoyance was certainly one undertone he could identify.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He would’ve gone if things were normal, or even if he could get rid of this surge of anger that constricted his chest. He wasn’t even sure if it was anger, everything a mess and unfamiliar, and yet, it possessed a touch of familiarity he couldn’t place. And he really didn’t want everything tumbling out and over Líadan, not again. 

“Maybe.” The neutrality in Líadan’s tone had been joined by confusion, and the beginnings of the pain Malcolm dreaded to hear.

Hearing the hurt constricted his chest even more, and made it difficult to breathe, much less continue his actions on the pell. When he turned his concentration to fighting the emotions tightening in bands around his chest, he dropped his practice sword in the dirt. He couldn’t bring himself to look over at her, knowing full well he’d see the same hurt in her eyes that he’d heard in her voice. He also knew that the longer he went without answering, the higher the potential that her hurt would evolve into a fury designed to protect her vulnerabilities. Namely, her feelings for him. “Yes, maybe,” he said out loud. “I need to do... something. I don’t know what, but I need to do it, and it has to be done before I can sleep.” Sleep. The action that would land Líadan in the Fade, where she’d face that _demon_ again, the one that used his face to lure her into its traps, and there wasn’t anything he could to do stop it.

“Then, _maybe_ , you should figure out what it is.”

“What exactly do you think it is I’ve been doing?” Raising his voice helped him ignore the tightening vise that had become his chest. 

Her eyes, the hurt actively being replaced by the fury Malcolm had predicted, flicked over to the pell. “Beating up on a wooden post is what it looks like.”

 _The post totally had it coming_ , he thought, but he was too worked up to say it out loud. As much as he didn’t want to argue, he didn’t much feel like breaking the tension through humor. Not yet, and he wasn’t sure when. 

She gave up on waiting for him to answer. “I wanted to let you know that Emrys and his clan are leaving for the north and Sundermount the day after tomorrow, once the new Wardens have been given time to recuperate. They wanted to travel with a full Dalish clan one last time before they fully integrated into the Wardens.” Líadan paused, her fingers tapping against the wooden rail she’d rested her hand on. “I’ll be going with them.”

“Right. Of course. We did discuss it, didn’t we? I do remember that.” Maybe she didn’t want him to go. Maybe Emrys had convinced her it would be for the best if the shem remained behind. He would be left here and even less able to do anything to help, anything to protect her and their daughter from the threat of the demon. The invisible bands wrapped around his chest squeezed so tight that it physically hurt. His breath caught in his throat, blocked by the turbulent emotion he’d been having trouble recognizing, but wouldn’t leave him alone.

In response to Malcolm, Líadan kept vacillating between anger and bewildered hurt, and hardened her voice to match his dismissively harsh tone. “Are you coming with me?”

 _Absolutely, I am_. Except he only managed to say, “Maybe.” Then his mouth snapped shut before it poured out everything else he was thinking, the mass of emotions rising in his throat.

Líadan blinked at his answer before visibly swallowing whatever scathing reply she’d nearly said. Her fingers tightened on the railing for a moment, and then she forced them open. “Why are you acting like this?” she asked in the same tone Bethany had used on him earlier in the day. The tone that cut right through every defense, every bristling emotion, and struck true.

His hands went to the top of his head, fingers tugging at his short hair before throwing his arms out to his sides in a burst of energy that accompanied his sudden shout. “Because I’m afraid!” 

She stared at him.

He stared back, because he hadn’t expected fear to be the lurking cause of his unease and anger, and yet once it had presented itself, it refused to be hidden in the shadows. Its origin jumped out in a blind attack, and he nearly stumbled as what he’d refused to acknowledge roared in his face. Gunnar. He’d been convinced that if he’d admitted the fact that Gunnar was gone, he’d act like he had when he’d been conscripted just before his parents had died—like a selfish, petulant child. He wasn’t that boy anymore, and he had too many different people relying on him to be strong and steady. If he’d allowed himself to fall into that well of grief, he wouldn’t have been either of those things. So, he didn’t acknowledge it at all that he’d lost someone from his life he’d figured he never would.

His mabari, the last being left who’d witnessed his parents’ last moments. The last being left who’d seen him at his worst, because the moments before his parents’ deaths had been the least auspicious of his life. But Gunnar hadn’t cared how stupid he’d acted, because Gunnar was never going to go anywhere. Sometime during all the battles the mabari had lived through, after all the times he’d saved Malcolm’s neck, Malcolm had started to believe he couldn’t die, that Gunnar would always be there. Then he wasn’t, and then everything had piled up and up and up, and at the very bottom of the stack dwelled fear.

“If Gunnar could die,” he said out loud, fumbling as the words fought their way out, “the dog who lived through everything the Blight and the war threw at him, then anyone can. He’d been the steadiest presence I’ve had left from Highever and my life before the Blight, and he died. And with how I feel about him being—” He paused, viciously shoving the rising grief back into its well when he felt the signs of tears. Then he took a breath to compose himself, and looked up to meet Líadan’s concerned eyes. “If I lost you, if I lost you and our daughter, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t. And I can’t do a sodding thing to help with the demon, not to protect you from it, not even to aid you in the fight against it. I’m useless, and Maker help me, I’m afraid.”

Her brows drew together. “So... you beat up on a post?”

Now, he needed the lessened tension, and attempted a lopsided smile. “Well, you should have heard what it said about my mother.”

Her lips quirked in a smile so brief the darkness nearly hid it. Then she said, “This is about protection, you know. If this demon manages to possess me, to make me into an abomination, I’d be a threat to everyone I care about. I could hurt you or kill you and everyone else around me, and I have no idea what would happen to our daughter. That might scare me the most, and if there’s anything I can do to prevent that outcome, I’ll do it.”

“Even if it’s a risk?”

“Less a risk than doing nothing.”

She had a point. He gave a grudging nod because he still didn’t _like_ it. “All right.” He bit his lip for a moment. “And I’d like to come with you, if you want me to.”

Líadan rolled her eyes. “Of course I want you to, you idiot. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered asking.”

He sighed and picked up the practice sword he dropped. Wouldn’t do to leave it lying about. Set a bad example. When he straightened, he found Líadan studying him. “What?”

“I was thinking, it would be nice to be able to touch you.”

He looked at her in confusion, wondering why she didn’t just do so.

Her wistful look quickly shifted into a scowl. “Creators help me, Malcolm Theirin, if you make me climb over this fence in this state, you will rue the day you were born.”

 _Oh_. Her body was no longer one of a nimble Dalish Warden. It had been replaced by what Oghren said was a wallowing bronto. When Oghren hadn’t thought Líadan was listening, Oghren had amended his description to ‘waddling bronto.’ Turned out Líadan had been within earshot, and punched Oghren soundly for his comments. Admittedly, Malcolm thought the image of her clambering over the rails while managing her pregnant belly was highly amusing. However, considering how things had been between them as of late, he wasn’t tempted to tease. Much.

Malcolm tossed the practice sword into the bin, and then hopped over the rails. He didn’t miss the look of envy Líadan got when she observed his agile, smooth movement. A shrug of apology from him brought forth an amused shake of the head from her before she reached out and placed her hand on his chest. Then she moved it upward, her fingers reaching under his gambeson and linen shirt to thumb the ring he wore on his leather necklace. After momentarily studying it in the scant light cast by the sconces in the outside walls of the compound, she tucked it back under his gambeson, and then swept both hands across the breadth of his shoulders before settling them there.

“Strong as you are,” she said, “it’s still all right to be scared, even if it feels strange.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What about all the shit you give me over being afraid of spiders?”

She rolled her eyes. “And there goes the moment. What I _meant_ was that it’s all right to have valid fears. Anyone can understand being afraid of spiders three times your size. But when you flee from a spider no bigger than the tip of your pinky finger, one has to question.”

“Yes. Question why the rest of you don’t see the danger of those creatures, no matter what their size, because anyone with the ability to reason must see it.” He took a deep breath as a realization came. “Then again, given the choice, I’d rather face a nest of spiders the size of the Landsmeet hall over having this demon after you. At least I can stomp on spiders. I can _do_ something, even if the first five minutes is convincing myself not to wet my pants and flee.”

As she looked up at him, Líadan’s expression became a mix of amused and touched. Then she slid her hands upward to cup his cheeks before tugging him down for a kiss laced with desperation, with fear and anxiety, and the tentative need for hope. When she broke away, she rested her forehead on his chest. “We can’t let it win. We won’t.”

Malcolm wanted it to be true, with the same desperation Líadan felt, but he knew truth did not follow the whims of mortal wishes.


	57. Chapter 57

  
“By nightfall, however, the camp was in an uproar. The hunters had returned with braces of hares which, when cut open, revealed only worms and sawdust. The elder said it was a sign that the hunters had robbed some spirit of its host, for it is well known that spirits do not go about the waking world on their own, but inhabit another creature’s body. The elder worked a charm to banish the spirit back to the Fade, and the clan went to sleep hungry.”

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

****Morning brought a flurry of preparations for the trip, food organized, packing done, horses chosen for the ability to get along with halla, all made harder with keeping the activity hidden from the Seekers. It was easier without the Seeker shadows, but they couldn’t be sure there weren’t observers posted outside the compound, or possibly within.

There was also the small matter of who to leave in charge. No matter how much he mulled over his choices, Malcolm was slow to realize he truly didn’t have any, save one—Oghren. The rest of the Wardens were too new, and Alistair was busy being a king and all. That left him, and the compound, with Oghren.

Well, Malcolm reasoned, perhaps only for a week. After they stopped at Vigil’s Keep, Hildur could sent a more suitable Warden to relieve Oghren. Then again, Oghren stood a chance at not screwing it up, depending on how sober he could stay. The dwarf had once been a good general for his House’s troops in Orzammar, and the dwarven city’s disgust for Oghren had partially been for his hugely wasted potential when Branka’s leaving left Oghren empty.

An emptiness Oghren chose to fill with ale, unless he could distract himself with killing darkspawn or subtly acting the wise, yet confusing uncle to the younger Wardens. Maybe this could be a turning point for Oghren. 

Malcolm was fairly certain even Oghren wouldn’t take those odds, but he needed to practice his optimism if he wanted to cling to the hope that Líadan could defeat the demon.

“You’re leaving,” Oghren said to him as Malcolm gathered necessary items from the storeroom. “Wondered how long it’d take you.”

“Who won the pool?” Malcolm selected a half-crate of health poultices. Then he thought better of it and grabbed a full crate. Bethany would be coming along, but while she was a good healer, she wasn’t a spirit healer, and would also need some mana left over for offensive spells. Plus, he didn’t think they’d much be able to trade with the Dalish, for the Suriel had presented thus far as less than kind. 

“Wynne. She shouldn’t be allowed to bet. I think she’s got an inside track. Third pool in a row she’s won. I don’t even know what she gets with the coin. Yarn for all that knitting? A waste.”

“Could be ale. She does have an appreciation for the finer ones.” For all that everyone went on about Wynne’s knitting, he’d actually yet to witness her doing so. “Or she could spend it all on those racy novels like she read during the Blight. Or both.” He grimaced. “All right, time to talk about something else.”

“You leaving that templar in charge?”

Malcolm halted his contemplation of the various lyrium potions to look at Oghren. “Thierry?”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about the pike-twirler.”

“No. He hasn’t been a Warden for long enough, he’s Orlesian, and former Chantry. As much as we know he’s loyal, the citizens of Denerim will never be convinced, especially not now. They’ll need someone they can trust. You know, like someone who fought alongside their King during the Blight.”

Oghren furrowed his brow. “That mean you’re staying behind?”

“No, I’m going. You’ll be in charge.” There. Now he couldn’t take it back. At the very least, the paperwork was cleared out for Oghren, due to Malcolm’s snit the day before. All Oghren had to do was keep order, which he’d already proven to be remarkably good at, when he chose to.

“Sodding Ancestors! Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Yes, but not about that.” Malcolm considered giving him all the reasons why Oghren was up to the task, but recognized that Oghren already knew them all, unwilling as the dwarf was to admit them. “You’ll be fine, Pride of Orzammar.” He clapped Oghren on the shoulder, grabbed the supplies he’d picked out, and ambled off before Oghren could remember how to speak.

Not long after, Alistair stopped by to give his wishes of luck, and to remind them that they should take Oscar.

“No,” said Líadan. “He’ll be a hindrance. It will already be difficult enough to sneak with Malcolm around. Add another heavy-footed warrior and we’ll get caught.” She looked up from her inventory of potions and other supplies Wynne had given her earlier. “Unless he’s secretly sneaky like Kennard?”

Alistair sighed with disappointment. “No. Kennard was the only qualified guard with that kind of skill set. But you leaving your bodyguard here sort of defeats the purpose of having one around to defend you.”

“He can’t guard me from the demon, Alistair,” said Líadan.

The King looked sidelong at his brother. “Can you convince her to be less right all the time?”

Malcolm snorted.

Debate over, over before it began, really, Alistair said his farewells to Líadan and the other Wardens. Malcolm walked with him to the exit to the palace, but before the King left, he stopped and grabbed a sheathed sword from where it’d been tucked away in the corner of the storeroom. “Take this with you. I expect it back in one piece, just as I expect you back in one piece.”

With a sigh, Malcolm accepted the offered sword that had been their father’s. “You keep giving this to me.” He didn’t _need_ Maric’s sword, not really. Sure, the runes were nice with their ability to sense darkspawn and ability to hurt darkspawn with magic in every strike, but Duncan’s sword was just as serviceable, if not as fancy. 

“You keep needing it, even when you think you don’t. I’m the one who lounges back here at the palace while you go gallivanting around. Well, that’s what I pretend you get to do. Makes me feel better.”

“You still get to fight with Seeker Cassandra.”

Alistair made a face. “Not much of a fight, really. She’s not after me, she’s after whatever’s afoot in the Chantry that has ties to someone—or a few someones—in the Fereldan nobility. She’s perfectly polite to me, mostly, and hasn’t infringed on me or Anora or anyone since that episode with the templars she didn’t collar properly.”

While Alistair had come to view Cassandra with a neutral eye, Malcolm had yet to accept the change. He did believe she was after the actual truth, and that it was within the Chantry and not exactly about Ferelden, but after what had happened, he couldn’t find it within himself to trust her or the Seekers entirely. Granted, he did trust her more than he _had_ , but since he’d started out with no trust at all in the first place, it wasn’t much of an improvement. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do to keep yourself from getting bored,” he said out loud. “Just try not to tease Anora too much. She’ll have your head.”

“Probably. And she’d probably be right.” Alistair gave his brother a firm squeeze on the shoulder. “I know you’ve lots to do, so I’ll get out of your hair. Keep safe. Keep _them_ safe. Maker watch over you.”

The rest of the day went by quickly, overtaken by night before they had a chance to notice. The Dalish Wardens had already set out of the city to meet up with the Suriel in the forests beyond. They didn’t need secrecy, not when they were merely new Wardens being transferred to Vigil’s Keep. Malcolm, Líadan, and Bethany had to wait for full darkness before they could steal away. Bethany joined them in the library as they did a final inventory and re-packing to Líadan’s specifications for maintaining quiet. Bethany, well familiar with slipping off in the middle of the night due to growing up an apostate, and the daughter of an apostate, had packed her belongings satisfactorily. Malcolm, not so much.

Líadan let out a weary sigh and pulled everything from his pack. “Go find some felt while I fix this mess of yours. Nothing can be left to rattle or clink or otherwise make noise or someone will hear.”

“Felt?”

She gave him a flat look. “To muffle the horses’ hooves. They’re loud.”

He stared at her. “You’ve done this before.”

“Attempted.” She returned to sorting out the items from his pack. “I didn’t have anything for the horse’s hooves, and it turned out the horse wasn’t amenable to being separated from the others. He made sure I knew, and I got caught.”

“When was this?”

“When you’d gone with Astrid.”

It seemed like years ago, but it surely hadn’t been that long. Had it? “Who caught you? And why were you sneaking off?” Líadan had tried to escape during the Blight, near the beginning of her being a Warden, but she hadn’t tried since, nor had she wanted to. At least, that was what she’d said.

“Your mother, and to go find you, you ass.” Líadan began to shove things into the pack with a little more force than Malcolm thought necessary.

Right, he needed to lighten the situation before she pummeled him and not inanimate objects. “See, there you go with the ass thing again.”

She finally glared up at him from where she sat on the floor. “Stop acting like one and it won’t come up so often.”

Bethany paused to look up from the health kit she was putting together. “When I tell you that sometimes you sound like my brother, it isn’t a compliment.”

He shut up.

When they finally left the compound, he kept his quiet, following each instruction of Líadan’s to the letter, lest he be the one to give them away to any Seeker shadows on them. No alarm was raised when they were outside the city walls, and they caught up with the Suriel clan easily enough in the pre-dawn twilight. Beyond establishing how the Wardens would travel and sending some out with the Dalish hunters to watch for darkspawn as the hunters watched for Seekers and other threats, Emrys barely acknowledged Malcolm’s presence. He sometimes spoke with Líadan, but not much, for Líadan avoided the main cluster of the Suriel clan, just as they avoided her. She mostly hid her discontent at the treatment from the Suriel, but Malcolm could clearly see it, though he could do nothing to help. 

“I regret to see that you have... settled things, for now,” Emrys said to him as they walked the perimeter of both camps. Emrys had invited him along, explaining that it was a way for him to show Malcolm what and where their traps were, but Malcolm now saw it was a different trap entirely. Beside the question being a dead giveaway, Emrys had almost immediately settled into a deep frown.

“I don’t regret it.” Malcolm did all he could to keep his tone civil. He knew Emrys was trying to get a rise out of him, and while he also knew that Emrys prevailing was inevitable, he didn’t have to lose quickly. He and Líadan also couldn’t afford to be at odds like they’d been a few days before, not when Emrys did not and could not know about the demon. 

Emrys remained somber. “I may yet set you on fire.”

Malcolm scowled. “That hardly seems fair.”

“I never indicated it was.” With that, the Keeper disappeared into the surrounding trees, leaving Malcolm alone, distant enough from the Dalish and Warden camps that he could barely see the campfires.

Emrys had also neglected to point out where the traps were, probably on purpose, and now Malcolm was left to figure out how to return to camp with his limbs intact and his skin free of burns. He couldn’t yell for help, nor could he risk blazing forward and sod the consequences. He’d been burned by magical traps once before, and he had no wish to undergo that again. That meant he could wait for rescue, or wait for the Dalish patrols to stumble on him, unless they decided to shoot him first, which was always a distinct possibility.

He sighed and leaned against the tree behind him. After a few minutes of no one finding him and no other solution other than waiting presenting itself, he took a seat at the base of the tree. It’d been a long day, a long night before it, and another long day before that. Since he had nothing better to do, resting seemed a prudent choice.

A cold mabari nose woke him from his light slumber, Revas’ snuffles loud in his ear. As he attempted to push the wardog away, a booted foot nudged at his shoulder. “You know,” said Líadan, “when Ariane told me some hunters had noticed you napping out here, I’d thought she was kidding.”

“Told you,” came Ariane’s voice from nearby. 

Malcolm opened one eye as he shielded his face from the mabari’s enthusiastic greeting. Revas’ overly kind treatment of him in the past weeks almost made him miss the times when she used to barely tolerate him. He never recalled Gunnar being this expressive. “Your grandfather,” he said once he met Líadan’s look, “abandoned me here.”

She glanced back at the two camps. Though they were fairly distant, they were still within sight and easily navigated to, even if one weren’t so good at land navigation. “Did he break your legs, too? Is that why you couldn’t just walk back?”

“I didn’t want to set off traps.”

“But you know where they are. He showed you.”

Malcolm sighed. “He never got to that part.”

Ariane chuckled. 

“This isn’t funny,” Líadan told her darkly.

“Honestly, it might be, just the slightest bit,” said Malcolm as he got to his feet. “I mean, I know I’m the victim here, but you have to admit, there’s no small amount of genius in his little prank.”

Líadan had yet to let up on her frown. “You could have been seriously harmed. Emrys needs to understand that no matter how he tries—directly or indirectly—to chase you away, it won’t work. It won’t make you any less my bondmate. Only injured, if his idea had been successful.”

“I only would have been hurt if I were stupid.” Malcolm well remembered the painful lesson he’d learned years ago, as a stupid and emotionally troubled young man, scarcely more than a boy. “And I’m not stupid. Usually.”

His easy dismissal of Emrys’ treatment earned him yet another scowl from Líadan.

“You know, I have to say, your grandfather’s frown looked awfully familiar.”

Her eyes widened slightly and she glanced away, pretending to glare at the snickering Ariane. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then she focused her frown on him again.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” He grinned at her, and then looked toward Ariane. “Since I’ve successfully irritated Líadan and Emrys beyond measure, would you be willing to guide me back? Or do I need to return to sleeping under the tree?”

“I’ll still take you back,” Líadan snapped, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him in the direction of the Warden camp. “Creators know _why_ I would,” she continued muttering to herself as they trudged through the woods and into the small clearing with a cluster of tents. “One would think you’re touched by the Dread Wolf and not Elgar’nan. Certainly not Sylaise or June, and Mythal would wring your _neck_ if you were an elf.”

To his credit, he managed not to laugh out loud, or even betray his amusement in the slightest. Granted, it helped that she hardly looked back at him, but still. Keeping a straight face wasn’t the strongest of his abilities, or even an ability at all.

“I’m still speaking with my grandfather tomorrow,” Líadan said as they got into the bedroll. “Perran might be set to be acting Keeper for the Dalish Wardens, but you’re still the Senior Warden to the rest of us here, especially the new Wardens. That goes doubly so since Hildur still has to approve of Perran being the Keeper for the Dalish Grey Wardens. Much as he’d like to, Emrys can’t just try to ditch you.”

“So this has nothing to do with you wanting me around?” he asked as he curved himself around her back after she settled in on her side.

In the darkness, he felt rather than saw her warm smile. “Maybe a little.”

The darkspawn attacked in the gray light before dawn, just as the group was set to move on for the day’s travel. 

Malcolm was in mid-conversation with Oisín when he felt the tingle in the recesses of his mind, the tingle he hadn’t felt since this strongly the Thaw. It galvanized him into long-practiced actions, commanding Oisín to gather the non-Wardens with the rest of the clan, to be protected by the clan’s hunters. The First sprinted off, and Malcolm shouted for the rest of the Wardens, many of whom looked confused at their first encounter of sensing the approaching darkspawn. Bethany joined Malcolm as they prepared, he with his sword out and shield slung onto his arm, and she with her stave held in front of her. 

Líadan attempted to bring the Dalish Wardens to focus by using Dalish hunter commands, but half of them were slow to respond, despite the darkspawn threat. Ariane, who’d been going over possible training for the new Wardens as they converted from hunters to Wardens, snapped out the same commands, and then added some choice Elvish phrases aimed at shaming the Dalish Wardens for their inaction. Once they were finally focused, Líadan sent them to form a skirmish line between the clan’s aravels and the darkspawn. Satisfied that all of the Dalish Wardens would obey their superior Wardens without question—even if half shunned one of them otherwise—Ariane ran toward the aravels to join the Suriel’s hunters. 

“I’ll go to the back,” Bethany said to Malcolm, having noticed on whom his eyes remained. “I’ll get her to guard the aravels. I’ll try, anyway.”

He nodded, trusting Bethany and Líadan’s reason—while an incredibly good fighter, Líadan, even using a bow, now likely lacked the stamina and dexterity to come through a battle unscathed. She would be safer and more useful on top of one of the aravels with many of the Suriel hunters, ready with their bows. Bethany trotted off, and Malcolm signaled for the Dalish Wardens to meet the darkspawn before they could slip past and reach the aravels.

Fighting the darkspawn again felt like slipping on an old, comfortable, and smelly boot. There was something exhilarating to Malcolm about finally doing what he was trained to do—kill darkspawn. Every worry and fear slid away as he submerged himself in the battle, finding old rhythms of blocking and cutting, hitting an emissary with a smite, felling an Alpha hurlock after an exchange of blows, the feel of magic snapping through the battlefield to freeze groups of darkspawn for him and the other warriors to shatter. There were enough Dalish Wardens that he didn’t even have to worry about someone else being tainted. He and the fifteen new Wardens could defend those they traveled with and not need the assistance of non-Wardens. It was invigorating to fight beside so many Wardens at once, and he began to know what it was that Alistair had lost at Ostagar. For himself, all he missed in the moment was his mabari fighting at his side, but he smothered the sadness before it could truly manifest. He couldn’t afford the distraction of sorrow.

The ogre lumbered out last, as if to avenge his brother darkspawn that were dead and scattered across the crushed grass of the forest clearing. The huge creature snapped trees as he advanced, throwing them into the clump of Wardens who waited for him. The Dalish easily dodged the slow-moving log, casting incredulous looks at the ogre for even trying such a tactic.

Perran had already called up roots from the soil to hold fast to the ogre’s feet. While they wouldn’t hold for long, it would be enough. The archers began their rain of arrows while those with swords and axes advanced. Malcolm motioned for the Wardens to wait until the whistling of arrows had stopped.

Once there was silence, they charged the ogre, seeking to overwhelm it.

They weakened him, more of their cuts and thrusts adding to the bloody wounds from the arrows, but the ogre refused to fall. None of them could seem to reach a vital area that would put the creature down for good.

“This one seems taller,” said Malcolm.

“So they usually aren’t this big? That makes me feel better,” said one of the new Wardens.

“Maybe you,” said another.

The new Wardens didn’t seem so bad, Malcolm thought.

The ogre reached down and plucked a sword from one Warden’s hand, bringing a round of Elvish curses directed at the darkspawn. In response, the ogre snapped the sword in two and let the pieces fall to the ground. 

“That sword has been in my family since the Dales!” shouted the sword’s owner. “Sod it.” She turned to Malcolm, took a knee, and held her hands in front of him for him to step on. “You’re the tallest. Use my hands as a step to boost you up. Then stab that cursed creature in the face.”

Not bad at all.

Malcolm took the advice and the help, and used the other Warden’s hands to launch upward, just high enough to get his sword through the ogre’s eye. The ogre groaned in pain and stumbled back, one gnarled hand clawing at his eyes, the other clawing at the human reluctantly half-clinging to him. The backwards momentum carried Malcolm forward, into the ogre’s chest, overwhelming his nostrils with the creature’s putrid odor.

The ogre recovered from his backwards stumble, overcorrected, and pitched forward. Malcolm scrambled to push himself away from the ogre, while one of the ogre’s hands still blindly slapped at him. Malcolm kept shoving the hand as he tried to get leverage with his legs. He barely managed to drop to the side as the ogre tumbled onto its face, which Malcolm thought must’ve driven the sword’s blade further into the cavity behind its eye. It was dead, and while the dismount post-kill had been nothing short of clumsy, Malcolm had escaped without injury other than the crushing blow to his pride.

He glanced back to see the aravels clustered together in a circle, with the clan’s hunters spread out on top and in front of them, ready to defend the clan should the Wardens have failed. Líadan would be up there, safer from harm than she would have been with the Wardens, even in the rear of the massed fighters, like Bethany. From his place on the battlefield, Malcolm could hear Emrys shouting at the hunters and the rest of the Dalish to remain where they were until the Wardens had dealt with the darkspawn bodies and the darkspawn blood on their persons.

Then Malcolm heard Líadan’s voice, and it wasn’t coming from the safety of the aravels. It came from behind him, where he also heard Bethany speaking soft reassurances to a wounded Warden as she healed him. Líadan was giving the new Wardens directions to gather the darkspawn bodies and burn them to ash with Perran’s help. Malcolm frowned. Either Líadan had arrived remarkably fast, or she’d joined in the fight when he wasn’t looking.

It was her choice, of course, but it didn’t stop him from thinking it a poor one. A risky one that put her and their child in unnecessary danger. He mercilessly shoved down the anger striving to burst out. Now wasn’t the right time to speak with her about it, and certainly not yell, because she’d punch him and he’d entirely deserve it. It also wouldn’t do well to appear divided in front of the new Wardens, and certainly not Emrys and the Suriel. 

When he’d composed his features to appear somewhat not pissed, he turned around. Líadan didn’t look at him, but Bethany caught his gaze and gave him a slight, apologetic shrug. He didn’t hold it against her. When Líadan got an idea in her head that she was going to do something, nothing short of physical restraint from another would stop her. They hadn’t the time to try reasoning with her with the darkspawn advancing on them. 

Bethany finished healing the injured Warden and helped him to his feet. Then she drifted to Malcolm’s side. “She did go over to the aravels. I watched her go. Then sometime in the middle of the battle, I suddenly noticed that she was just standing next to me with her bow, firing arrow after arrow into the darkspawn. She even took out a couple genlocks with her dagger when they snuck around the side and flanked us. When she went to run after you when you were trying not to get crushed by the ogre, I actually had to grab her arm and hold her back. Which, mind you, required a few spells to keep hold, and that was with the aid of her mabari blocking her path.” Bethany glanced over in Líadan’s direction. “I think she might be mad at me.”

“Probably. Don’t worry. I doubt I’ll be able to keep from expressing my feelings on the matter to her, which means you’ll be off the hook and she’ll be mad at me, instead.” 

“If you say so.” Bethany’s dubious look told him she didn’t really believe him, but hadn’t the energy to argue.

“I do. Now, I need to go retrieve my sword from the ogre’s eye, which he landed on, so... that will be a bit of a bitch, actually.” The other Wardens were already dragging the darkspawn bodies toward the ogre, since it made more sense to bring the comparatively lighter darkspawn to the overly large one. That meant Malcolm had to get his sword before the pile became too dense to manage. Once he got over to the ogre, the other Warden who’d had her sword snapped in half was poking at the ogre’s body with her booted foot. 

She gave Malcolm a hesitant nod when she noticed his approach. “If I can find the pieces of my sword, I might be able to find a smith to repair it.”

“If you do find them, there’s an incredibly good smith at Vigil’s Keep who can do the work. Can’t go wrong with Wade. Only place you’ll find a better smith is in Orzammar.”

“It would be worth a try, provided I can gather all the pieces.” She held up the hilt that had only half the curved blade still attached to it. “Need to find the blade. Elgar’nan, I hate to say it, but I think it’s under this ogre.”

It took six Wardens working in concert to roll the ogre onto its back. The Warden looking for her sword cried out in glee on sighting the last piece. Malcolm wished getting his sword would be that easy, but it wasn’t to be. He braced himself with his feet as he tugged on the small part of the hilt left sticking out of the ogre’s eye, pulling with every bit of strength he could muster. At first, it didn’t move. “Is it stuck in the sodding bone?” he asked himself before bracing himself again and heaving. He heard the sword give way and it immediately flew out, sending Malcolm unceremoniously onto his backside, whereupon he discovered he held not a sword, but merely a hilt and a few inches of blade. The rest remained inside the eye, probably lodged in the skull. Malcolm looked from the hilt to the ogre and back again, and wondered if the dead Duncan would understand if he left the other half of the sword where it was.

There was only so much he was willing to do to recover weapons, and diving into the overly-large eye of a darkspawn wasn’t one of them. He’d bring the hilt back to Denerim, have it mounted or something, and give it to Alistair as a keepsake of his old mentor. Luckily, though he hadn’t believed it luck when Alistair had insisted he take it, he had Maric’s sword with him, so he wouldn’t have to drum up a replacement. 

The darkspawn bodies were reduced to ash in record time with the combined fire spells of Bethany and Perran, with even Líadan adding some extra heat. Malcolm had forgotten that her magic served as a good way to amplify the magic of other mages, since they’d been so long without the company of a decent number of battle mages. Then came the arduous task of cleaning armor, along with weapons and anything else that might’ve been exposed to darkspawn blood. It was painstaking and took far too much time, but it was worth the diligence to keep others from being tainted. 

He had only one short exchange with Líadan as they washed in the small stream the hunters had found the evening before. “I thought you were with the aravels.”

“I was.”

“The whole time?” He carefully scrubbed at his fingernails while he just as carefully did not look in Líadan’s direction.

“No.”

Malcolm held in a sigh and continued scrubbing. 

He wasn’t able to further inquire until another short exchange as they set up their tent, hours and miles later. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Her reply was tight with frustration. “Standing watch with the hunters didn’t feel right. Trying to help Emrys didn’t feel right, not when my real clanmates were fighting the actual battle. So I left Emrys and the aravels and joined the rest of you. I’m not an invalid.”

“I never said you were.” It was almost painful to keep his voice as soft as he was keeping it. He wanted to shout, even if it were irrational shouting. 

“Then stop acting like I am. Emrys didn’t stop me, so obviously he saw nothing wrong with it.”

Malcolm didn’t bother telling her that he believed Emrys thought it perfectly fine for her to fight darkspawn in close quarters, but for reasons entirely different than Líadan thought. Emrys might value _her_ life, but that was it. Malcolm wasn’t naïve enough to believe Emrys valued the life she _carried_ , even if it would technically be the Keeper’s great-granddaughter. He kept his silence like he had earlier, because there was already enough of a wedge between them.

In camp that night, when Emrys paid the Wardens a visit, the Keeper ignored Malcolm in favor of speaking to Líadan, even though Malcolm stood right next to her. “We have never been attacked by the darkspawn outside the Blight or infested areas before,” said Emrys.

Líadan didn’t bother hiding the roll of her eyes. “You’re traveling in the company of Grey Wardens through areas that have ties to the Deep Roads. The darkspawn are drawn by Wardens, especially groups of Wardens, or Wardens who have been in the order for twenty or more years. So you see why I could not live with a non-Warden clan, and why I could not be a Keeper.”

“But it would only be you, and you have much time before you would begin to succumb.” 

Malcolm couldn’t stop the scowl of discontent that Emrys’ continued dismissal wrenched from him. Always with the returning of Líadan to the fold of the Dalish, always ignoring Malcolm and the fact that he and Líadan were bonded.

“You do not matter, young man,” Emrys said to him.

Of course he noticed the scowl. “You’ve made that perfectly clear,” Malcolm replied, not bothering to soften his irritation, and at the same time, realizing that Emrys made a decent target for anger he hadn’t yet been able to express. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t stop Líadan from joining the battle with the rest of the Wardens.”

“Why would I? She is a Grey Warden. It is her duty to fight the darkspawn. As a trained warrior immune to the taint, her place is on the battlefield, not standing watch on the aravels. She was perfectly safe.”

“And what about the child? What if something had happened to her?”

“I am not so certain that it would be a bad thing.”

The slight inhalation from Líadan told Malcolm that she _hadn’t_ thought Emrys would have that sort of agenda, though Malcolm had suspected it for quite some time. 

“You can’t be serious,” she said to Emrys. “Even though she’s human, she’s still your blood.”

Emrys’ nostrils flared, revealing his temper for the first time, before it was roughly hidden once more. When he spoke, the Keeper’s voice was as perfectly level as it normally was. “She is not Dalish. She is not even _elvhen_. She is as inconsequential as he is.” Then Emrys turned and strode back to the Suriel camp. 

After seeing the broken betrayal in Líadan’s eyes as they trailed the Keeper’s departure, it suddenly didn’t matter anymore to Malcolm that she’d fought the darkspawn with the rest of the Wardens. She’d lived, she’d gone unharmed, and that was what mattered most in the end. Emrys’ softly spoken condemnation of his own granddaughter had done far more damage than the darkspawn ever could have.


	58. Chapter 58

“The next day, the hunters brought back a doe, and again the beast bled sawdust. Now the clan began to fear the spirit would starve them, and wondered what they had done to deserve it. Abelas came forward then and told of the rowan tree. The elder considered for a long time before declaring that they must replace what Abelas had taken from the spirit. So he sent the hunters to dig up a rowan sapling, and bring it, living, to the camp.” ****

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****Velanna would have loved the Suriel clan. Try as she might, Líadan still felt more comfortable in the company of Malcolm and Bethany than she did the Dalish elves of the Suriel, even though their Keeper was her blood kin. They tolerated the presence of the shemlen as they traveled, but only just. The Suriel, especially the hunters, made it very clear that if Malcolm and Bethany had not been Wardens, they would not be welcome at all. As for Líadan, none of the Suriel Dalish spoke to her except for Emrys. She was fairly certain the only reason he spoke to her was because he was her grandfather. Even then, they did not exchange many words, and the ones they did exchange, such as the ones the night before, were often hurtful.

Even half the new Grey Wardens, taken from the accidentally tainted Dalish elves who’d attempted settlement around Ostagar, refused to speak to her. At least with them, Líadan knew Hildur would soon set them straight, but it still didn’t feel good. It was clear that they and the Suriel felt she should have been exiled, but had ultimately been overruled by the Arlathvhen’s decision to consider the Dalish Wardens a kind of clan of their own, albeit with different rules. Beyond that, the choice of whether or not to exile rested with Líadan’s mother clan, the Mahariel. Existing rules aside, it did not preclude other Dalish from shunning her, and so they did.

Creators, it hurt.

It hurt so much that it woke her in the nighttime, her chest squeezed so tightly with the pain that it was hard to breathe. 

The only people who kept her from believing she truly was an exile were Oisín and Ariane. Each of them determinedly kept speaking to both sides, a silent reminder to the sullen Suriel that Líadan was not an exile, and they would not treat her as such. Yet, the ultimate example rested with Emrys, as an old and revered Keeper, which served to neutralize the influence Oisín and Ariane had with the other Dalish.

Revas rested her head on Líadan’s leg, and she absently stroked the soft fur behind the mabari’s ears. Small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. She’d seated herself against one of the large, long rocks at one side of the clearing the Suriel’s hunters had chosen for the night’s camp. The Wardens had finished setting up their tents, with the Dalish Wardens over with the Suriel, still using halla and aravels for travel. The Suriel routinely took longer to set up a campsite, due to their clan numbering well over a hundred, in addition to the fifteen new Wardens still traveling with them. Malcolm had gone with Ariane and Oisín this time for a tour of the traps the hunters had set, while Bethany and Líadan had elected to remain behind in camp. The feeling of moroseness had crept up on Líadan when she’d gotten lost in thought as she’d watched the Suriel shelter the halla and set up their aravels for the night. It reminded her strongly of the loved life she’d been forced to abandon, and of how she would never be welcome to it as she once was.

“The other Dalish,” Bethany said as she took a seat nearby, “they don’t seem to welcome your presence very much.”

“No. They think I should have been exiled for bonding with a human. Or for having his child. Or both.”

Bethany frowned. “It’s uncomfortable to see, even though I know it must be more uncomfortable to experience. It... it was like this for Merrill, whenever we visited Sundermount and she came with us.”

Frustration left over from Líadan’s confrontations with Marethari over Merrill’s exile flashed through her. “Merrill never should have been exiled.”

Bethany’s brow furrowed in thought. “Then why was she?”

Líadan shrugged. “I don’t know. I couldn’t get a straight answer from Marethari.”

“Marian always complained about that after Sundermount trips.”

“It’s a Keeper thing, the evasiveness. They like riddles, because they _are_ riddles.” It was irritating and annoying, and even the most tolerable of Keepers possessed the trait. Just for good measure, she threw a glare in the direction of the Suriel camp, and hopefully Emrys.

Bethany followed her gaze, and then returned it to Líadan. “If they’re treating you like this, why go with them? Other than them providing a cover for travel, is it because Keeper Emrys is family? I swear that’s the only reason Mother puts up with Uncle Gamlen. Maker knows it’s the only reason I put up with Carver.”

“No. I wish it were that simple.” And that the truth didn’t scare her more than facing down the Archdemon or Flemeth ever did. It was like the Dread Wolf himself chased her in her dreams. “Emrys is a very powerful, experienced healer. No insult to you, but if anything were to happen... even if he and his clan are torture to be around, it’s better than the alternative.”

“No offense taken.” Bethany held up her hands. “I wouldn’t want that sort of responsibility. I’m not advanced enough in my healing abilities to feel confident enough for that sort of thing.”

Líadan gave her a rueful smile. “If you can heal a minor scrape, you’re further along than I am.” She found she couldn’t bring herself to speak of the other, more pressing reason for traveling with the Suriel: the demon that hunted her in the Beyond. If anything happened, if it somehow caught her and overwhelmed her, Emrys would know. He would know what to do, and he would not hesitate to do it. After all, even though the child she carried shared his blood, she was human, so what did he care if she lived or died? He did, however, care about his clan, and if the demon took her, then he would have to ensure the clan’s safety. He was a Keeper; it was his duty.

She didn’t want Malcolm to have to do it and live with it afterward, templar abilities or no. The memory of Alistair having to mercy kill Leliana during the Blight still filled her with sorrow and trepidation, that someday Malcolm might be compelled to do the same, or she for him. Or there had been that templar, Ser Ava, who’d had to kill the small Dalish child to keep her from being taken by darkspawn. Or all the tainted people in villages ravaged by the darkspawn they, as Wardens, had been compelled to kill before they became ghouls. It was bad enough when the person was a stranger, but for them to be loved ones when you hadn’t the ability to entirely separate duty from love, it was truly a nightmare.

However, she still had to ask, to be sure another person would step in were it to become a necessity. The demon hadn’t yet fully tricked her, not even as much as he had the night when every Warden in the compound had found out about it. Yet, she could not afford to become complacent, and had to prepare for the eventuality that the demon would prevail if they did not reach Anders in time.

Or, if they did, and the worst still occurred, because that outcome was a very real possibility. 

The idea kept her awake in the darkness of the tent, and her difficulty with getting comfortable didn’t help matters any. It seemed that every time she finally settled, her hip started to hurt. Or her back. Or she discovered she had to visit the latrine _again_. Coupled with her reticence to return to the Beyond in her sleep, and her anxiety over what would happen if she failed against the demon, insomnia plagued her at no surprise. 

It also kept Malcolm awake. She’d assumed he’d somehow managed to fall asleep and remain so through all her tossing and turning, but when she returned from her second visit to the trenches used for latrines, he spoke up. “Want me to see if Bethany has a sleeping draught?”

She froze, halfway under the covers of the bedroll. “No.” Much as she wanted actual sleep, provided it could be made demon-free, she didn’t dare use magical or artificial methods of getting there. It could render her more vulnerable. She preferred suffering through the insomnia. 

“Maybe ask Ariane to hit you over the head?”

She snorted. “No. She’d only be too happy to oblige. I’d worry about her enthusiasm.”

Malcolm propped himself up on his elbow. “So, you’re just not going to sleep ever again?”

“You say that as if I don’t want to sleep. I do. What I don’t know is what could help, and not do harm at the same time. Sleeping draughts could make me weak to the demon. Hits to the head hard enough to cause unconsciousness generally also cause concussions, as you well know. I think a sleep spell would render the same results as a potion. I don’t think any of those things are worth giving the demon what it wants.” She twisted the corner of the blanket she’d yet to pull over herself. “Malcolm, if anything hap—”

He sat up so quickly that it cut her off before he spoke. “I don’t want to think about it.”

She stopped with her fidgeting to look directly at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “But someone—”

“Please don’t ask me to.” He finally looked up from his contemplation of the bedroll to look her in the eye. “I’m not sure if I could do it. I can barely even think about the possibility.” He sat up and held his hands in front of him. With his fingers splayed, he shifted his gaze to study them. “To lose you is frightening enough. To lose you and our daughter in one blow, and to know it was my hand that did it...” He clenched his fists as he let them drop to his lap, and then he shut his eyes, falling silent. 

Líadan shifted closer and pried his hands out of their fists, one by one. Then she carefully placed each to rest on one of her hips before putting her arms around his neck to cup the back of his head. When his eyes remained closed and his face stayed in the mask of pain at whatever dreaded future he imagined, she leaned forward and kissed him. It took a few, seemingly long moments for him to respond, to shed the terror that had snared him, and then he was back with her, in the present. His hands tightened on her hips as he drew her as close as possible. He opened his mouth to hers and she felt the trace of tears on his cheeks, tears he’d mostly held back. Then he slowly ended the kiss and pressed his face into her neck, his arms wrapping around her. 

“I can’t even... I can’t be the one,” he whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” One of his hands threaded through her hair as he attempted to bring her even closer to him. The strength of his embrace told her exactly how frightened he was at the prospect of the demon making her an abomination.

She gripped him by the shoulders, almost clinging to him, and rested her head alongside one of her hands. “I understand. We’ll figure something out. Maybe there’s a trustworthy templar Anders knows. Maybe even Bethany’s brother, for all she’s still bitter at him.” Her fingers brushed along the nape of his neck. “Will the templars in Kirkwall be able to tell?”

“That a demon is after you? No. They’d be able to tell if you’re possessed, though, obviously. But unless you tell them you’ve a demon after you, you should be fine. From what Anders said before, and what Bethany has said, I doubt the Kirkwall templars would be as willing as those at Kinloch Hold when it comes to defeating demons. They’d either execute you or make you Tranquil.”

She froze and drew back, looking him directly in the eyes as he frowned at her sudden movement. “You’re talking about the horrible ritual that severs a mage from the Beyond? The one that robs them of their very being? What they were going to do with Rhian?”

He nodded. “That’d be the one. Something to do with lyrium and a brand on your forehead. I don’t know how it works, exactly, and neither does Alistair. End result is that you’ve no emotions anymore. You’re just kind of... there. Existing, but not really.”

Líadan wasn’t sure if it were better she become an abomination that would be slain outright. Creators, execution would be better than existence as an empty vessel. “I never want to live like that,” she said. 

“You aren’t aiming for easy answers tonight, are you?” He attempted to keep his tone light, but the humor fell flat. “I’m not sure if I could—”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Malcolm. If they ever make me Tranquil, you can’t let me exist like that. I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t be living. Just _there_ , and that’s never something that I want.”

“But you would still be breathing, and you’re asking me to be the one to make you stop.” 

“I would already be dead. Life would be a meaningless word to me.” She leaned in and kissed him again, this time leaving him breathless when they were done. “That would be empty. Meaningless. What’s between us would be broken because I would no longer hold my end of the bond, because I would no longer be me. The templars would have killed me, not you.”

His hands gently grasped her wrists. “I’m not sure if I can keep the separation between the ones who made you Tranquil being your real killers when I’d be the one to stop your heart from beating.” He brought her hands close to him, and then let go to be the one to initiate the kiss, and she was nearly overwhelmed at what she felt in it. “I would look at you and remember this, remember what we were, and not be able to give up the memory. I would want to search all Thedas to find the cure to Tranquility to bring you back. Not just for me. For you, for Cáel.” His fingertips lightly caressed the swell of her belly, and the child inside kicked at the slight pressure. Malcolm’s mouth quirked into a smile. “And for her. I wouldn’t give up, and either letting you die or killing you would be doing exactly that. I’m not saying I’d want the shell, the echo of who you were, around. I’d want to be able to make you whole again, and I wouldn’t stop until you were.”

Maybe slight hope was better than an immediate death were she to become Tranquil. The fervid belief in Malcolm’s eyes shone brightly enough in its conviction that he would be able to heal her through sheer will alone almost convinced her to believe as he did. Hesitant hope would have to do, hoarded in case the hypothetical situation ever became reality. She nodded, her head suddenly muzzy with the drowsiness she’d chased after for half the night. Her attempt at ‘I love you’ came out mumbled and in Elvish.

Though he appeared to understand what she’d meant, Malcolm didn’t look much more awake when he returned the sentiment and then kissed her forehead. She settled into the bedroll, finally feeling drawn to slumber, tired enough to face the Beyond. He curled up behind her, a steady strength at her back, and held her as they slept. 

For those hours left to night, Líadan escaped the demon every time.

By the middle of the next day, the two groups rode through the gates of the outer curtain wall that secured Vigil’s Keep. The Silver Order guards manning the position took the appearance of veteran Wardens in stride, but cast second and third looks of surprise at an entire Dalish clan in the Wardens’ company. Líadan pursed her lips, wondering why they hadn’t been adequately prepared when Malcolm had written beforehand.

A messenger sent by the bewildered guards rode out to the main building of the fortress ahead of the large traveling party. From the way Malcolm’s fingers tightened on the loose ends of his reins, Líadan could tell he wanted to catch up to them to find out what was going on. But they were accompanying the Suriel, and more importantly, the new Dalish Wardens. So they rode slowly next to the aravels, the halla having slowed their normally incredibly fast pace out of deference to the many trappings of a civilization that wasn’t on the move. Halla always did better and moved faster in the ancient, almost untouched forests found across Thedas. Human settlements, they merely tolerated, much the same as they did some humans—most humans, they avoided. Before they approached the inner curtain wall, the halla and the aravels they pulled peeled off to the side to wait to find out where the clan would be setting up camp. Emrys instructed Oisín to go with the Wardens and return with instructions from the Warden Commander about their encampment for the night, while the Keeper spoke with the clan.

About what, Líadan had no idea, aside from warning hunters not to interfere with—or try to startle—Grey Wardens.

When they rode through the final gates to admit them to the bailey of Vigil’s Keep, Hildur waited for them at the base of the steps to the doors of the main building. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said to Malcolm as he dismounted. 

He handed the horse’s reins to a waiting groom. Behind him, Líadan and Bethany did the same, though Líadan’s dismount was so precarious and clumsy she almost wished for a mounting block. The groom who stood nearby winced when she nearly toppled over, breathing out a sigh of relief only when she relinquished the horse to him. 

Hildur had taken note of the ugly dismount, and directed a raised eyebrow over Malcolm’s shoulder and onto Líadan. “You’ve misplaced your usual grace,” she said with a hint of a smile. “I think the growing nuglet stole it.” As Líadan scowled, Hildur’s smile only grew wider. “And before you ask, the other nuglet is asleep, for the moment, so don’t worry about rushing to see him. Trust me, just like before, you don’t want to wake the wee one up. Makes everything unpleasant for everyone.”

The excitement Líadan had held onto the closer they’d gotten to the Vigil, and the closer they’d gotten to reuniting with Cáel, abated. There would be more of a wait to snuggle him, but he was _here_ , in the same place they were.

“So, what’s the deal?” Hildur asked Malcolm. Her tone was light, but the message underneath was all business.

“I brought new Wardens,” said Malcolm. “Lots.”

That sent Hildur’s eyebrow up again. “You have a specific number?”

“Fifteen. All Dalish. Have fun with that.”

Had Líadan been closer, she’d have punched him in the arm. She settled for glowering.

Malcolm ignored it.

“That’s a story I’d like to hear in full.” Hildur glanced behind her, where Seneschal Varel was already heading down the steps. “Good, you’re here,” she said to him. “Malcolm very kindly brought us fifteen new Wardens, and I need you to find quarters for all of them.”

Varel nodded. “As you will, Commander.” He addressed the Dalish Wardens, bidding them to accompany him. They didn’t move, looking to Perran for leadership, instead. 

Perran frowned, grumbled under his breath, and then introduced himself to Varel. After explaining the actions of his fellow Dalish, while at the same time scolding them for clinging to traditional Dalish ways when they were now of the Grey Warden clan, he indicated for the others to follow him as he followed the human seneschal. A few of the new Wardens cast sorrowful looks behind them, through the gates, as if they could see the aravels and the Dalish life they were now leaving permanently behind.

Líadan empathized, though they would not yet do the same for her. She, of all people, knew how rough the transition was. Despite having a long head start on the others, even she hadn’t yet fully transitioned. 

Having finished giving directions to Oisín, and then telling Bethany to assist Varel, Hildur addressed Líadan and Malcolm. “Come on. Let’s go have a chat in my office.” She turned and headed up the stone steps to the Vigil.

Líadan frowned as they trailed behind their dwarven commander. “I thought she already knew,” she whispered to Malcolm. “You went to write her that really important letter instead of staying with me to finish our talk with Alistair, because that letter was super urgent enough to require writing right then, without delay.”

Malcolm could do nothing to hide his grimace of guilt. “I got distracted.”

“Did a giant rat attack you in the compound?”

He let out a rueful chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes, actually.”

Well, she supposed he had been attacked, in a way. He hadn’t even recognized the advancing fear until it’d taken over and begun to boil outward in the guise of anger. To remind him that she’d forgiven him, she briefly reached out and squeezed his hand. Then she returned it to her side, the picture of a dutiful Warden.

Hildur looked well-rested and in her element as they took seats in her study. Actively being a Warden Commander, despite its challenges, seemed to suit her more than her previous, higher-ranked office at Weisshaupt. To Líadan, the other woman seemed brighter, somehow. Refreshed, even though her work with the Fereldan Wardens contained many trials. If anyone could handle the news of a demon after one of her Wardens, it would be Hildur. 

With that notion in mind, Líadan didn’t bother with preamble or prevarication, as she knew Malcolm probably would attempt if he were given the lead. “There’s a demon,” she said as soon as Hildur looked at her. “A demon is after me in the Beyond.”

“Shit.” Hildur scrubbed her fingers over her face, and when she moved them away, weariness had overtaken the brightness in her eyes.

Apparently, Líadan had assumed wrong.

“See, this is another reason why Fiona really shouldn’t have died.” By way of apology, Hildur waved a hand in Malcolm’s direction. “The obvious aside, I mean. But I don’t know enough about mage stuff, much less the Fade since I’m a dwarf and have never been there and plan never to go there, so hearing about a demon after one of my Wardens, well. I think I’d rather clear out the Dead Trenches alone than attempt to figure out what to bleeding do about a bloody demon in the Fade. Outside the Fade, I can just kill them. Inside? Haven’t a sodding clue.”

“It’s the same,” said Líadan. “You kill them. It’s just... a lot more complicated to do it.”

“Do you know why it’s after you? I seem to recall you’ve never been the target of demons before. Riordan mentioned that to me a long time ago, back before he left me this mess.”

“I’m honestly not sure.” Líadan wished she could cross her legs, but her belly kept her from doing so unless she slouched and settled for crossing her ankles. While wearing boots, she couldn’t pull her legs up into the chair and sit cross-legged, either. As she concentrated on remembering her first encounter with the demon, she plucked at the loose threads on the chair’s covering. “The first time it came across me, I’d just run into who I’d assumed was Cianán.”

In the chair beside her, Malcolm straightened from his usual comfortable slouch he took when meeting with Hildur. Líadan knew it was because she hadn’t told him that part. She hadn’t told him not out of thinking he’d overreact, but because it had truly slipped her mind until Hildur asked.

When neither of the other two said anything, Líadan continued. “Then I remembered that Cianán resembled Morrigan and not Zevran, so I have no idea who it was. I doubt it matters. He was being chased by a spirit of sloth, which I’m willing to concede is a sloth demon. The young man, whoever he was, ran past me and somehow manipulated the Beyond to form a sheer cliff behind me in my dream, so that the demon couldn’t catch the stranger. I think I was his consolation prize, and he’s been after me ever since.”

Hildur let go of a long breath just short of a sigh. “I assume you’ve spoken with Alistair and Wynne about this?”

“Reluctantly, but yes. Their initial recommendations were the same—go to Kinloch Hold and ask them for help into the Beyond to kill the demon.”

“I gather you said no.” This time, Hildur did sigh. “What _are_ you going to do about it?”

Líadan told her about the letters Anders had sent, as well as how the traveling of the Suriel clan would be a good cover and protection from the Seekers if they chose to go after them for leaving Denerim. “Alistair also said we could truly look for recruits among the Fereldan refugees, if you’d like us to.”

“It’s a possibility. There isn’t a Grey Warden garrison in the city, despite it being quite large. Nearest one in the Free Marches would be Cumberland. Used to be one in Ostwick, but the Wardens still haven’t heard from Stroud. He’s the one who took all his Wardens, save Bethany and Anders, into the Deep Roads to look for something at Weisshaupt’s command.”

Líadan wondered what it was Stroud had gone looking for, but if Hildur thought she needed to know, she’d have said. “Why isn’t there a Warden garrison in Kirkwall?” she asked.

“Mostly, because it’d be unhealthy for the mages. The Veil in the city isn’t in much better condition than the Veil at Sundermount. Also, Wardens tend to disappear there. Or they did. We sent three to investigate... things... and they never returned.”

“And you didn’t send more to find them?”

Hildur grimaced. “We did. They also didn’t return.”

“Sounds like it would’ve been a good time to send a great, big sodding army to investigate,” said Malcolm.

“It was suggested. And then there was a Blight, as it happens.” Hildur folded her hands together on her desk and turned to Líadan again. “Now, this Keeper of the Suriel who needs to visit the Mahariel at Sundermount, what was his name...”

“Emrys,” said Líadan. 

Hildur nodded. “Right. Emrys. He actually believes you’re going to Kirkwall to recruit?”

“And to get out from under the thumb of the Seekers,” said Malcolm.

“I can see that being believable, almost.” Hildur opened a drawer and Líadan heard her rifle through a stack of papers. “Now, last time I heard, the Dalish, when traveling as a clan, weren’t much for journey by sea. That means they’ll take the long route via land, which means it could take up to a month to get to Sundermount and Kirkwall. Assuming you aren’t able to convince this Keeper to change his ways,” she said, giving both Líadan and Malcolm a significant look just over the top of her desk before going back to her search, “I believe that will put Líadan awfully close to when the nuglet will be born.”

“Give or take a few weeks,” said Líadan, though Hildur’s mere mention of the subject made her chair uncomfortable.

“Mmm.” The purse of Hildur’s lips as she sat up straight, sheaf of papers in hand, told them she didn’t believe that assurance, either. “Given the outcome I mentioned, you’ll need to know this sooner rather than later. Soldier’s Peak turned out to have extensive Warden records, including some of the few times female Wardens have borne children. The good news: overall, they turn out healthy and perfectly normal babies, free of the taint and all its other nasty effects. The bad news: you, personally, won’t be able to feed your infant.”

Hildur deliberately choosing to use the more technical term for a child instead of her favored ‘nuglet’ told Líadan that the commander was being incredibly serious. “Why not?”

“It’s the taint. It’s transferred in the milk, and can easily and quickly make that previously healthy infant into a blighted one. It’s... not pretty. There’s a record of a time it happened, and the notes were, well. I plan to never read them again.” She held up the papers. “It’s here, if you’d like to read it to verify for yourself.”

“No.” Líadan repressed a shudder as she vehemently shook her head. To give birth to a perfectly healthy child, only to inadvertently cause its painful death was a curse all on its own. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thought you would. Believe me, it’s the better choice. Knowing that bit of information, though, if you can’t convince that Keeper to go to Kirkwall by ship, you’ll need to figure out how you’ll feed the nuglet should she decide to make her appearance while you’re away. Given that she’s the child of the two of you, I’d pretty much count on her insisting on being born at the worst possible time.”

Nuala would probably agree to be the babe’s wet nurse, Líadan thought. Cáel would be heading towards weaning soon enough. But if Nuala agreed, she would have to go with them, which also meant Kennard, and most certainly Cáel. Líadan couldn’t find it within herself to view that as a bad thing. She missed Cáel terribly, and had no wish to endure the pain of his absence for another month or more. The look she exchanged with Malcolm showed that he’d arrived at the same conclusion. 

“Well, before we snuggle the nuglets before they crack their rocks, let’s see what the Keeper has to say, if he’ll even agree to a meeting.” She called for a waiting messenger to enter, and then glanced at Líadan. “I take it you’d like Bethany to go with you?”

“Yes.”

“I think it would be good for her to see her family again,” said Malcolm. 

Hildur nodded. “I agree.” Then she told the messenger to fetch Bethany. “Then you’ll need to request, _request_ , mind you, very politely, for Keeper Emrys to join us.”

Already, the youngster, who couldn’t have been more than ten summers old, looked intimidated. “Will he be with that Dalish clan that came here today, ser?” he asked. 

“Most likely,” said Líadan. 

The boy bit his lip as his eyes widened in apprehension.

Hildur frowned. “Has someone been telling you stories about the Dalish?”

He scuffed his foot. “Maybe.”

“You and I will be having a chat later so I can get names,” said Hildur. “You aren’t in trouble, young ser, but whoever told you those falsehoods is. Whatever they said that frightened you? Not true. Yes, the Dalish can be intimidating and prickly, but if you’re polite, by and large, they’ll be polite in return, so long as you haven’t trespassed into their territory in the forest. Since the Suriel clan is encamped within the Vigil’s outer walls, you’ll be fine.”

The lad didn’t look much more convinced of his safety than before Hildur’s little speech. Líadan couldn’t blame him. She suspected he was somewhat justified in his fear since he’d have to speak with Emrys. “Tell you what,” said Líadan, which made the boy give her a hopeful look. “I’ll write a note for the Keeper, and you can just give it to him. That way, if he gets mad, it’ll be at me. The other Dalish will be civil with you, I promise. Maybe not friendly, but they won’t hurt you or yell at you. If they do, you tell me, and I’ll have some words with them.”

The page brightened and shot her a grin. “Thank you! You’re nothing like Bernard said the Dalish are like.”

“That’s one name down,” Hildur muttered under her breath as she motioned Líadan over to compose the note.

It didn’t take long for Bethany to join them after the page had left with his messages. She quietly entered and sat in one of the free chairs, listening attentively as Malcolm planned out loud with Hildur what methods he preferred for travel to Kirkwall. “I’d rather take a ship. Days versus weeks doesn’t make for a very difficult decision,” he said.

“And you have a captain you can absolutely trust not to hand you over to the Seekers should they decide they want you in custody?” asked Hildur.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” He sighed. “The only captain who comes to mind is the one who took us to Cumberland before, but I’ve no idea where Isabela is now. I haven’t heard of her ship taking port in Denerim in, well, forever.”

Hildur furrowed her brow. “Isn’t she the pirate?”

He rolled his eyes. “She isn’t a pirate _all_ the time.”

“If you’re talking about a Rivaini pirate who goes by the name Isabela,” Bethany said quietly from her corner, “she’s in Kirkwall.”

“See?” Malcolm said to Hildur with a flourish of his hands. “We’ve got a trustworthy captain to bring us back.”

Bethany cleared her throat. “You should also know that Isabela doesn’t have a ship.”

“Did she lose it?” Líadan asked. “How does one misplace a ship?”

Bethany shrugged. “I’m actually not sure. We could never get a straight answer from her, and everyone except for Varric just gave up on asking. Maybe she finally told him or my sister or both the truth after I left, but I never heard it. However, I think her knowledge, combined with Varric’s, could help find a safe captain for a return trip to Ferelden.”

“Which means you’re still stuck traveling with the Suriel to Kirkwall,” said Hildur. 

Malcolm’s reply was interrupted by Emrys’ entrance. The Keeper solemnly nodded at Hildur after casting an imperious glance at Malcolm and a neutral one toward Líadan. “Warden Commander,” he said, his voice even.

Hildur returned the nod. “Keeper.” She indicated one of the two remaining empty chairs. “Feel free to take a seat, if you wish.”

“I would prefer to stand,” he said, and barely moved the length of a stride away from the door. 

“Whatever suits you.” Hildur shrugged. “So, the big question here before we can get to logistics is this: how are you getting to Sundermount, Keeper?”

“The clan will journey overland, through as many forests as possible, avoiding human roads,” said Emrys. “We will not board a ship. It is not how the People travel, for halla do not tend to fare well in a ship’s hold, and aravels cannot fit at all.”

“It adds weeks to a trip that should be measured in days,” said Malcolm, thinly disguised bitterness evident in his tone.

Emrys did nothing to hide his disdain as he regarded Malcolm. “I will not split up the clan. You may choose to travel on your own, if you lack the patience to travel by land.”

Hildur leaned forward and broke in before Malcolm managed to truly antagonize Emrys. “If you don’t go with the Suriel, you run the risk of never getting there at all. Forever is a lot longer than a few weeks. And,” she added, before anyone could raise more objections, “just in case this ends up looking worse than an overturned anvil, you’ll have to bring the nuglet, Nuala, and Kennard with you. Having them along really means you should stick with the Suriel for safety. If anyone can avoid the Chantry or any contact at all, it’s the Dalish. Other than Weisshaupt, Cáel honestly won’t be anywhere safer.”

It was, Líadan knew, a reason why Morrigan had gone to the Ra’asiel when she’d been carrying Cianán and Cáel. She would even argue that on Thedas, there was nowhere safer than with a Dalish clan intent on avoiding human contact. It was why the Suriel, along with a few other insular clans, were rarely seen. 

Malcolm heaved a sigh. “It isn’t really up to me, anyway.” He glanced over at Líadan. “It’s up to you,” he said to her, with no hidden agenda that she could see; he really did believe it was her decision to make. “Since you’re the one who stands to suffer the most should things go wrong.”

“We’ll stick with the Suriel,” she said. While she didn’t exactly relish staying with the Dalish clan for weeks on end, it remained the safest choice for everyone involved. She could deal with the discomfort of her treatment from the Suriel, provided it had an actual end she could look forward to.

“A wise choice, granddaughter,” said Emrys. 

Líadan narrowed her eyes, yet did not look behind her. Emrys’ choice to refer to her by their familial relationship had to be entirely calculated, and not an expression of his fondness for her. She was no longer a child; she knew not to expect better from him.

Hildur’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked positively delighted at the revelation. “Oh?”

After willing her hand not to reach up to cover her eyes, Líadan did sigh. Then she motioned between Hildur and Emrys. “Hildur, this is my grandfather, Emrys, Keeper of the Suriel clan of the Dalish. Emrys, this is Hildur, current Warden Commander of Ferelden, and also the aunt of Orzammar’s King Bhelen.” The last bit of information Líadan added was for Hildur’s looking so absolutely pleased with herself at hearing that Emrys was Líadan’s kin. The brief frown Hildur sent in her direction only made the tiny revenge better.

Then Hildur grinned. “And great-aunt to an incredibly adorable little boy named Endrin,” she said to Emrys. “People always leave off that part unless I remind them, or my nephew glares at them for forgetting his son. His wife never gave him an heir, Stone rest her, but the casteless concubine he took seems to have the Ancestors’ blessings.”

Emrys seemed enraptured by Hildur’s warm account of the family she had left in Orzammar. “It has been so long since I’ve interacted with the dwarves that I’d forgotten how interesting they are as a people,” Emrys eventually said. “I would like to speak at length with you, Commander, before my clan departs. If you do not mind.” The last part came out as a slightly rushed afterthought, as if holding friendly conversation with a non-Dalish was a rusty skill.

Knowing Emrys, it was probably true.

“Love to,” said Hildur as she stood up. “In trade, you can tell me stories of little Líadan.”

Before Malcolm could invite himself along, Líadan got to her feet as quickly as she could, which wasn’t very fast at all. But the flurry of movement kept him from speaking well enough. “I think it’s time for us to find Nuala,” she said to Hildur. Then she turned to Emrys. “When will the Suriel be leaving?” 

“The day after tomorrow. There are supplies we can trade for here, and since we’ve already stopped, we might as well conduct our trading.”

She nodded, and then headed out the door before Emrys decided to start in on any stories of her child self that he might hold dear. From how he continued to argue for her to return to the Dalish, she believed he saw the memory of the child she was instead of the adult she’d become, either because he wasn’t able to view her as an adult, or because that had been the last time he’d seen her as truly Dalish. Either way, she didn’t particularly want to hear those memories. Not when the grandfather recounting them was nothing like the one she remembered.

On their way out, Hildur advised them that Cáel usually had a snack of some sort after his nap. They’d barely reached the main hall, following the sounds of the evening meal’s preparation, and on the advice of one of the staff that Cáel usually had some sort of snack after his nap, when they happened on Nuala and Cáel. Nuala had seated them at the table nearest the door, and was attempting to clean the boy’s face of the remnants of whatever he’d eaten. Cáel, on his part, wanted nothing of it, instead squirming in her arms in an attempt to reach the floor. He babbled loudly, his tone clearly indicating his objections on the matter of being cleaned. 

“Oh, for Maker’s sake, I give up. You’ll just end up dirty, anyway, after you crawl around,” said Nuala. Then she plunked the child on the floor.

“He’s crawling?” asked Malcolm.

“Oh, yes,” Nuala said, smiling at seeing him. “And I’m sure you heard his version of talking. Talks up a storm, he does, especially when he feels he’s been wronged.”

“Babies are apparently wronged multiple times a day,” said Kennard from where he stood near the table.

Both Malcolm and Líadan had squatted down to Cáel’s level, and though he had trouble making purchase on the flagstone, Cáel was crawling his way over to them as quickly as he could. Malcolm scooped him up into his arms, earning him a pat on the eyes and nose as Cáel usually greeted him at first. Then the boy seemed to notice Líadan was there as well, though not as gregarious as Malcolm, and leaned toward her. When Malcolm didn’t promptly hand him over, Cáel began to babble nonsense syllables at his father in a tone of voice as loud as he’d used with Nuala. 

“All right, all right, fine,” Malcolm said in a pretend grumble.

“Told you,” said Kennard. “And he’ll just want back in your arms in less than a minute. I’d put coin that he’ll want back and forth for a good while yet. The boy’s missed the two of you.”

Cáel seemed puzzled at first with his mother’s way of holding him having changed due to her swollen belly, but got over it quickly, electing to gently touch her _vallaslin_ instead of just staring at it, like he had weeks ago. In the time they’d been separated, Líadan could see that Cáel had grown considerably, both in mind and in body. His eyes, still the same deep blue of Malcolm’s, seemed to comprehend a lot more. When he reached the crosshatches where the two sides converged in the middle of Líadan’s forehead, Cáel grinned and then clapped. 

Líadan realized she didn’t want an extended separation from him again, not if she could help it. From how Malcolm looked on, and then gave his own smile of delight when Cáel leaned toward him to be handed back, he apparently felt the same. 

“I’ve been wondering, since he’s been babbling so much,” said Nuala, “what will we have him call me when he starts actually talking? He’s a Theirin, so I suspect it will be sooner, rather than later.”

“Fergus and I called our nurse ‘Nan,’” said Malcolm, ignoring her dig at his bloodline.

Nuala frowned. “Sounds like an old woman’s nickname. A grandmother’s name. I’m not so old that I need a grandmother’s name.”

Malcolm looked up mischievously at Nuala over Cáel’s head. “Not yet, anyway.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “With cheek like that, how did you ever survive childhood?”

He grinned. 

“Oh, that. That right there.”

Líadan had to admit, that particular smile of his _did_ get him out of a lot of scrapes.

“So, Nan it is?” asked Malcolm.

Nuala sighed. “Probably for the best. I suspect he’d mangle my actual name. Probably on purpose, considering he’s your son.” She stood from the table. “Now, I hear that you two are planning on taking a little trip to the Kirkwall area, and that I might be going along, as well. Care to bring me up to speed on what the future holds?”

“Doom and gloom,” said Malcolm.

Líadan sighed.

Then Malcolm smiled and winked at her. “Also unicorns. Better known as halla. Maybe not so bleak, after all.”


	59. Chapter 59

  
“There at the camp, the elder ordered the sapling planted, and appealed to the spirit for forgiveness.”

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****The halla peered down at the not yet a year old little boy, her wet nose touching the child’s dry one. Cáel stared right back up at the beast from where he’d stopped crawling in the grass in favor of sitting. Somehow, in the brief instant when Líadan and Nuala had turned to answer Ariane’s call to them from the gate, Cáel had reached the area where the halla were resting.

Líadan couldn’t recall any of the Dalish children of her clan moving that _quickly_. Then again, she hadn’t been paying special attention to the clan’s children, so there was a possibility that this situation had occurred before, many times, and she’d just not witnessed it. Even still, she was a little unnerved. While halla weren’t prone to bursts of violence unless threatened or highly provoked, Cáel wasn’t Dalish or an elf. He had elven blood, possibly from both sides, since no one, including Morrigan, knew Morrigan’s exact ancestry. Yet, elven blood, even fully elven, wasn’t a promise that interaction between a large animal and a small child wouldn’t result in injury, whether intentional or accidental. 

“Oh, my,” said Nuala. “Is he in danger?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Halla are usually gentle.”

“I honestly didn’t think they’d be so big. We hear of halla, in the alienages, but we always assume they’re small and delicate, like deer are when you compare them to horses.”

Líadan frowned. “Considering they were used as mounts by elven knights, that view doesn’t make much sense.”

“Never said it did. Should we be extricating him? Or the halla?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think either of us could move fast enough. And, if we did, we might startle the halla into accidentally hurting him. Were this my own clan, I could just talk to the halla—they’re at least as intelligent as mabari—but these halla are still strangers to me.” Her forced separation from the Dalish clan while they’d traveled north hadn’t allowed her time to get to know any of the halla, or even introduce herself. Which, she now realized, was an oversight. 

The halla licked Cáel’s forehead, which caused the boy to burst into giggles. Then she rubbed her fuzzy cheek against his smooth, chubby one, and Cáel clapped. The old mare withdrew her head enough to look him in the eyes again, and remained absolutely still as Cáel reached out with his small hand and stroked the fur between her horns. 

Well. Líadan certainly hadn’t expected _that_. The part of her mind always wary of the sloth demon’s influence flared to life, questioning if this were another trap, another dream of the demon’s, one where her son wasn’t unwelcome among the Dalish. Clans often took cues from the halla and their reactions to newcomers. While they didn’t often encounter humans, when they did, they didn’t tend to react well. A few instances were known to have happened where halla were perfectly fine with a select human or two. Malcolm had done fine near the Ra’asiel’s halla, as had Morrigan. Alistair could never be convinced to approach them, so they’d never know about him. Other humans who’d approached the Ra’asiel halla had been rebuffed by them. 

Cáel seemed to be doing just fine. The other halla had followed the lead of the old mare’s, and they each slowly made their way over to interact with the curious little human. Having seen this behavior in halla in her own clan, Líadan’s apprehension died away. Halla often did this with Dalish children, especially ones they hadn’t yet met. 

Nuala, however, did not have the privilege of knowing and experiencing common halla behavior, and so her voice was still sharp with worry. “There’s an awful lot of them walking around. What if they step on him?”

“I would be honestly shocked,” said Líadan. “They’ve decided he isn’t a threat and accepted him. They’re just meeting him now. This is normal.” 

“For you, maybe.” Nuala relaxed only the slightest bit, and did not remove her eyes from Cáel. “For a non-Dalish, this is the equivalent of watching a herd of horses run circles around a baby.”

“Halla are a lot more intelligent than horses.”

“I didn’t say my view was rational. I was just telling you what it looks like to me, and why my heart is going to beat its way right out of my chest.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” said Ariane from behind them. “Halla like children. They think they’re more fun and innocent than adults, and they love hearing them laugh. Cáel’s just their new friend to play with. Honestly, you Fereldans, you’ll let your children hang all over those big, slobbery dogs of yours and think nothing of it. This is the Dalish equivalent. Well, with less slobber.”

“Thank the Creators for that,” said Líadan. Much as she loved Revas, and loved and missed Gunnar, she had not developed any appreciation for their slobber.

Nuala looked between the other two women, seeming as if she wanted to be convinced, but just couldn’t get her mind to cooperate. “Still...” Her eyes slowly trailed over to where a few of the halla remained, nudging or sniffing or studying a thrilled Cáel. 

Ariane heaved a huge sigh. “Fine. Three of those halla are part of the four who’ve been pulling my aravel. They know me, so if it makes you feel better, I’ll go over there with them, even though he’s perfectly safe.”

“They’ve got hooves,” said Nuala. 

Ariane snapped her mouth closed, turned, and strode over to Cáel and the halla. Líadan laughed softly as her friend left, understanding both sides of the discussion. On his part, Kennard did nothing to soften his chuckles, and Nuala patently ignored him.

“So,” Nuala said after a few moments of silence, “you weren’t planning to ride horseback all the way to Kirkwall, were you?”

Before she could answer, Líadan’s hips flared in pain to lodge their protest at even considering the idea. Her trip from Denerim to Vigil’s Keep had left her with a burning, lingering pain in her hips every night, and that had been under a week of travel. Weeks on end might just very well cause her lower body to mutiny and walk away on its own. 

“Thought so.” Nuala chuckled, but with a fond warmth and no derision. “You think one of your friends could give us a lift on a landship?”

Líadan glanced over to where Ariane had knelt in the grass to play translator between Cáel and one of the halla. “You just met one of the two friends I have who travel with the Suriel. Ariane is one, and her bondmate, Oisín, I would consider another. The others... I don’t know most of them. Of those I do remember, the memories are fuzzy and hard to grasp. And Emrys is...” She let out a huff of air. “He’s... it’s complicated, even if he is my mother’s father.”

“Yes, I believe I’m familiar with the concept of ‘family,’ ‘complicated,’ and ‘I can’t possibly be related to this person in truth, can I?’” She paused long enough for Líadan to laugh, but then Nuala continued, eyes still fixed on Ariane, Cáel, and the halla. “However, complicated doesn’t change facts. I’m honestly amazed you managed the ride from Denerim to here, and there’s no way under the Maker’s sun—or your Creators, whichever—you’ll make it from here all the way to Kirkwall.”

“That remains to be seen.” Líadan forced herself not to shift her weight from one foot to the other, only now recognizing that she’d being doing that very thing for the entire conversation. 

Nuala crossed her arms. “Oh? So you’ll be going on a ride later today, I take it?”

Líadan cursed under her breath. 

“Aravels are looking better and better, aren’t they?” asked Nuala.

Since the question was driving her to distraction, Líadan chose not to answer. “What about you?” she asked instead. “And Cáel? Can you ride? And if you are, which of us is going to carry him? Or will we trade off?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m riding on an aravel with Ariane.”

“With two newly bonded?” Because, to be perfectly honest, Líadan thought, she’d suffer the hip pain over sharing a small space with a newly-bonded couple.

“We aren’t _that_ newly bonded,” Ariane called out from where she stood holding Cáel atop one of the halla, the original older mare who’d first approached the boy. “It’s been months, you know. I think we can handle sharing some of our space without risk of exposing others to anything untoward.” She lifted Cáel from the halla, gave the halla a fond pat on the flank, and then walked toward the other two women. “Besides, your new Wardens had aravels of their own they traveled with, now left with the Suriel. As long as we can find people to drive them, no one will have to go without, which means the horses can be left here.”

Líadan crossed her arms and glared at the two of them. “You’ve had this all planned out, haven’t you? Maybe I’m perfectly fine with riding to Kirkwall.”

Nuala mirrored Líadan by crossing her own arms, and then pointedly looked her up and down before asking, “Have you _seen_ you? I’m astonished you managed to get on a horse at all, even if you used one of those helping-things—”

“Mounting block,” Malcolm said as he strode up behind them. “She didn’t use one. Honestly, I expected her to, especially after watching her mount and dismount and was bracing myself for the inevitable fall, but she never asked. And I wasn’t about to suggest it, either. Now that I think about it, we can’t really tote one around with us when we go. I’d offer for my hands to be used as a makeshift step, but once I said that, she’d prefer to make use of my head for that, instead. So, there you go.”

He didn’t have the hilt of Duncan’s sword with him, Líadan noticed. He’d gone off earlier that morning to speak with Wade about restoring it or reworking it. “How did it go with Wade?” she asked him, eager to change the subject. She didn’t need to ride in an aravel and she didn’t need to use a sodding mounting block. She was fine. Bearing a child did not render her an invalid, as everyone else assumed it had.

Malcolm sighed. “Not well. He scolded me for leaving the other half in the ogre’s eye. Herren stuck up for me, though, saying it was ridiculous to expect anyone to retrieve anything from an eye that disgusting. Then Wade got all technical when he explained what he could and couldn’t do, but the gist of it was that if he repaired it, it wouldn’t be as strong, and if he reworked it, it wouldn’t be the same sword, and it would need new enchantments, and the dwarf who used to do all their enchanting—you remember, the odd, but nice boy?—moved to Kirkwall with his merchant father. So, I decided to just have him clean it up and mount it and I’ll give it to Alistair or something.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to actually breathe once in a while when you tell stories,” Ariane muttered under her breath. Líadan quietly laughed at the idea. Malcolm had relayed tales in the same manner since she’d first met him. As astonishing and sometimes irritating as it could be to watch him ramble on and on without the need to take a breath, she couldn’t imagine him telling stories normally. It wouldn’t be him. She could only hope that Cáel and their unborn child wouldn’t inherit the same propensity.

“You’ll still need a sword,” said Nuala, “unless you plan on throwing that remnant at the darkspawn, followed by fighting them with your bare hands.”

Líadan would pay to see that.

Malcolm pulled a face. “I have one.” He drew the sword riding on his hip partially out of its scabbard to illustrate. “See? Well, it’s really Alistair’s, but he gave it to me to use on this trip. I’ll figure something else out once we’re back. Not bare hands, though. They’d bite them off. I like my hands. Fingers, especially. They come in handy.”

Ariane groaned. “How have you not killed him yet?”

“Fingers,” said Nuala. “Didn’t you hear him?”

An abrupt cough came from Malcolm’s direction, where an understandable blush had colored his cheeks. “Anyway, why were you discussing mounting blocks?” Then he winced. “Right, so that sounded dirtier than I thought, but not what I was going for.” He gave Nuala a plaintive look. “Please just answer the question you know I’m asking because I’m not sure I can take much more embarrassment.” He kept his gaze on Nuala, ignoring the dark look Líadan focused on him.

It did nothing to keep her mood from souring, because they wouldn’t understand the entirety of her reluctance, even if she explained it to them. She didn’t want to rely on the Suriel, on fellow Dalish elves who shunned her like she was an exile when she hadn’t been exiled. She didn’t want to be surrounded by elves who believed her to be an intruder. Traveling with them was bad enough. Traveling amongst them would be a certain kind of torture.

But, Sylaise have mercy, she was tired of being tired. Tired of the looks she got, of the extra attention and care some people gave her because they saw her as an invalid merely because she was with child, of not being able to walk normally, of being clumsy, of being tired and yet not able to sleep, of not being entirely herself. Her body was not hers; it was not the body she’d known her entire life, and she wanted it back. Maybe it was selfish, but it was the truth. And it would mean people wouldn’t gang up on her like they were right now in order to try to convince her to do what was best for her. She knew damn well it would be far better to ride in an aravel, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it, at least easily. Her hips, however, had other things to say on the matter. 

In the end, she capitulated, because riding simply out of pride would be colossally stupid and short-sighted. As it happened, Ariane, Oisín, and Nuala had already worked out the details, with Oisín agreeing to drive the aravel he’d been sharing with Ariane, and Ariane taking the reins of one of the ones left by the new Dalish Wardens. While not everyone could sleep inside just two aravels, they could at least all ride comfortably on top, and sleep in tents at night. At first, Emrys objected to the plan, but relented when he saw the halla accepted the entire party, both humans and elves alike. 

“One does not argue with Ghilan’nain,” he said at the sight, more a pronouncement than anything, and it was the last he said on the matter. 

Even with more non-Dalish accompanying them, traveling with the Suriel continued as it had before. The two aravels that carried Líadan and the humans trailed behind the train of Suriel aravels, at times almost a separate entity rather than part of the larger group. When they walked amongst the Suriel in the night camps, Oisín and Ariane were treated normally. Yet, whenever Líadan had to enter the Suriel side of the camp, she was met with silence. Every clan member, save Emrys, avoided eye contact with her. Why Emrys persisted in trying to convince her to return was beyond her if his clan treated her this way. It was certainly not a compelling argument, and she soon stopped going into the Suriel camp entirely. Bethany went instead, and was met with better treatment, merely on the fact of her being a Grey Warden.

It took the better part of a week for Emrys to confront her over her absence from the Suriel camp. In the morning, Líadan walked to the aravel she rode in, driven by Ariane, to find Emrys sitting on one of the wooden bench seats on top, calmly waiting. He gave no indication that anything was amiss when she scowled and clambered up, because she wouldn’t run away to ride on Oisín’s aravel just because she was afraid of speaking with her grandfather. It wasn’t that she was afraid, not of Emrys or the topics she knew he’d broach. She was just sick of hearing about them. It wasn’t like either of them were going to change, and it was a waste of time and effort and breath to keep at them. 

Not that facts such as those hindered Emrys’ efforts. 

Below her, Malcolm, Kennard, and Bethany caught sight of Emrys on Ariane’s aravel. As one, the three of them immediately turned and walked to Oisín’s aravel. Nuala, who’d been trailing behind them, shook her head in disgust. “Cowards!” she called after them. Cáel curiously watched the goings-on from where he sat in a sling on Nuala’s back, content to remain quiet while he observed the so-called adults in their element.

Kennard gave Nuala a jaunty wave in return, yet did not reverse his course.

As she clambered up the ladder that led straight to the top of the aravel, Nuala continued grumbling under her breath, muttering insults about Kennard’s parentage, ancestry, and relations that had to be outlawed everywhere except possibly Antiva. When she reached the top, she pulled up the ladder behind her before turning to Líadan. “All right, how’d you get rid of Oscar?”

“Technically, Kennard is Cáel’s bodyguard, not yours. Though, since you’re still Cáel’s primary source of food, that includes you. So I suppose you’re stuck with Kennard as much as Cáel is.”

“You didn’t answer my question, I noticed.” Nuala shifted the sling to her front, and then settled onto one of the benches.

“Knocked him out and left him in a ditch. Alistair will be pissed when he finds out.” Líadan rolled her eyes. “He got left in Denerim since he couldn’t sneak out with the rest of us. Believe it or not,” she said, and pitched her voice to carry forward to Ariane, “we found someone who is even louder on his feet than Malcolm.”

“Ogres don’t count,” Ariane said over her shoulder as she asked the halla to set out. “And the way he fits—or doesn’t—into an aravel, he might as well be an ogre himself.”

Líadan wanted to disagree, but she couldn’t shake the image of Malcolm squeezed into one of the aravels as he had been when he’d first tried, his broad shoulders bumping into shelves and walls, knocking over so many things that Ariane had chased him out. Kennard had suffered much the same fate, but the rest of them could move about inside without issue. However, Líadan slept outside in a tent with Malcolm, not eager to sleep alone when she had a demon after her, and not wanting the reminder of the demon’s dream that had nearly fooled her. “He isn’t an ogre,” she settled for saying. 

A harrumph of disdain came from Emrys, snatching away the lighthearted humor the others had shared. “He is if you take into account what he’s done to you,” he said to Líadan.

She sighed. “With me. _With_ me. I was there, you know.” In favor of halting her grandfather from launching into another debate about her current lot in life, she dispensed with politeness and aimed for shock. “Not only was there full consent, but I started it.”

“Creators, I did not need to know that,” Ariane said.

Nuala kept her opinion to herself for the time being, even hiding her face by looking down at Cáel and ruffling his hair.

Emrys stared straight ahead at the forest before them, and said nothing.

Though, Líadan realized that she’d spoken a mistruth by accident. “What happened wasn’t consented to by either of us. That was the thin Veil or the intervention of a spirit who’d wandered though it, or something that hasn’t yet been figured out. I will grant you that unintended consequence, but I won’t allow you to assign sole responsibility to my bondmate.” While she’d grant him a point, she wouldn’t let him forget that he spoke of her bondmate, however much he disliked it.

He expressed said dislike with another noise of disgust. “He is human. He cannot be bonded to you, no matter what the ceremony.”

“I was a witness,” said Ariane. “Looked valid to me.”

“Keeper Lanaya was taught well by Keeper Zathrian. I’m sure the ceremony was properly done. It’s the participation of the human that invalidates the bonding, not how it was conducted. That Lanaya conducted the ceremony merely shows her youth, along with her tacit approval of the elf-blooded child that will come from this bonding.”

“It wasn’t tacit,” said Líadan, wanting acknowledgement for the one Dalish Keeper who had repeatedly supported and reassured her. “She approved. She said as much, and then told me the child, _my_ child, would be an agent of change, that she would be fated for more than human or _elvhen_. Keeper Lanaya accepted my child long before I did.” When Líadan was honest with herself, she still hadn’t fully accepted the daughter who’d yet to be born. Admitting that she wanted the child was a step in that direction, but she’d yet to reach full acceptance. It was difficult to do so in the face of the challenges Emrys presented, challenges she’d given herself since she’d found out she was with child.

As he turned to face her, Emrys sighed, the sigh of a weary teacher who couldn’t seem to get through to dull-witted students. “She is young yet, as are you. Though others are increasingly convinced of her ability at predictions—prophecies, some say—I am not so easily fooled. I do not see how a human, born from one of the People and stealing another of our lines possessing of the Gift, could advance our people. I am sorry, if this gave you hope. I have not meant to crush it.”

“No? Because I’m not so sure.” In fact, she was fairly certain his intention had been to crush whatever hope and acceptance she’d managed to form. Crush and reduce it to dust, like dried elfroot under a pestle, because his attempts at persuasion had fallen flat. Which, now that she thought of it, weren’t typical of a Keeper. “You know, for a Keeper, you’re remarkably less than persuasive.”

“Only because I am your kin. Were you another, I believe I would have had more success.”

Ariane laughed softly under her breath, expressing her disbelief. At the same time, Nuala scoffed.

Emrys blinked and turned to her. “You disagree?”

She handed Cáel off to Líadan before giving Emrys a frown. “Of course I do. I realize she’s your blood kin, but it’s like you don’t even know her. You still see the little girl you once knew. You’ve yet to meet the adult, even though you’ve been looking her straight in the eye for ages. I’ve heard Keepers are supposed to be wise and knowledgeable, and yet you can’t seem to see past your own preconceptions of what your granddaughter should be. Maybe you should get to know her before you go about trying to change who she is.”

“She is Dalish.” Briefly, Emrys’ hands tightened on the wooden bench under him. As he relaxed them, the muscles in his jaw flexed, the tension refusing to entirely leave his body.

His statement forced a derisive laugh out of Nuala. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the pole that held one of the aravel’s massive sails. “Yet, you allow your clan to treat her as an exile. You treat her practically the same. You allow such treatment, you engage in such treatment, even though I know for a fact that your little Arlathvhen or whatever it’s called declared that the Dalish Grey Wardens are their own clan, and not beholden to the same rules as other Dalish.”

Líadan saw the flare of anger in Emrys’ eyes, his want to scold the other elf for speaking so forthrightly, to deny her observations. Then the anger faded, and while his tone still held an edge, he sounded bewildered. “I had not noticed such treatment from the clan.”

“No?” Nuala swept one of her arms toward the line of aravels extending in front of them as they whipped through the forest along the southern shore of the Waking Sea. “None of them speak to her unless absolutely necessary. They don’t make eye contact, or they pretend she isn’t there if she walks among their aravels at night. For Maker’s sake, Kennard and Bethany are treated better than she is, and they’re human. How is that not treating her like an exile? You’re her grandfather, and so her mother was raised in this clan, right?” Nuala paused just long enough for Emrys to give her a brief nod, and then she launched right back in. “So, how is it that none of those elves who might’ve been friends with her mother have spoken with her? Told her about her mother, or even asked if she wanted to hear any stories about her? Instead, your clan either ignores her entirely, or gives her sullen glares when they think she isn’t looking. Guess what? She’s looking. She’s seen it. Or have you not noticed that she doesn’t even go to your clan’s camp anymore?”

“I had noticed. It is the reason I chose to ride on this aravel today, to find out why.”

“Well, there you go. You have your answer. You and your clan are behaving exactly as we awful city elves always assume you behave. Unbending, arrogant, obstinate, haughty—”

Ariane cleared her throat. “He probably gets the point by now.” The soft way she spoke served as a gentle reminder to Nuala that she had friends among the Dalish, and not all of them were as she was listing.

“Do you?” Nuala asked Emrys. “Or need I explain further why most city elves have no desire at all to join the Dalish? Or how even a Keeper can be so blinded by the past that he can’t see the present for what it is? Is change really that terrible?”

Hesitant to hear Emrys’ answer, Líadan concentrated on Cáel as he wriggled in her arms in an attempt to get down so he could crawl around. Cáel was safe, much as Revas was, their love unconditional, provided they were well fed. Especially with the mabari, all bets would be off if she were hungry. Otherwise, Líadan felt her relationships with them were simple and secure. At least for now, in Cáel’s case. She recognized that could easily change as he got older. For the time being, it was enough.

However, Líadan did not miss when Emrys’ eyes flicked over to her before addressing Nuala again. “I have much to think about.”

“Yes, you do.” Nuala had yet to flinch under the Keeper’s scrutiny, which made Líadan wonder if it was inherent, or if it was a skill she’d learned with practice.

Emrys inclined his head, rose, and then walked to the back of the aravel without speaking another word. He was out of sight, behind the storage area behind one of the sail posts, but still within earshot. The rest of the morning ride was awkward, the conversations between the women stilted because they could only speak of the mundane, when they wanted to discuss deeper matters. 

As if still smarting from the argument, after Emrys left their aravel to travel on another during the midday rest, no one brought up the morning’s confrontation, much less addressed it. Content to ignore how Emrys’ scrutiny had left her raw, Líadan spent the day with Cáel and Revas, watching Cáel work on pulling himself up on crates on the top of the aravel, while Revas kept close to provide a cushion for his many tumbles. The tender, frayed edges of her feelings slowly healed as she allowed herself to be caught up in the comforting memories of traveling with her clan.

The aravel they rode on was old, as most of the aravels were. If an aravel wasn’t old, the wood it was constructed from was often taken from other, older, and broken aravels. In doing so, her people surrounded themselves with the vessels that had carried them for generations. Individual planks often had carvings or inscriptions, either of importance, such as prayers to the Creators, their symbols, drawings of old tales, or the carvings were the work of a child or adolescent, crude or vaguely offensive, yet still part of their history. Traveling this way after such a long time traveling in the human manner filled her with security and contentment she’d not had in a while. 

The warmth of familiarity found her in the evenings, when she caught snippets of stories coming from the main campfire of the Suriel, their _hahren_ ’s voice carrying as Paivel’s had with the Mahariel. Keeper Emrys continued to stay away, visiting only when the bare facts of traveling together needed to be discussed. After those visits, Emrys didn’t leave quickly. He dropped out of sight soon enough, but a Dalish-trained hunter could still see his shadow in the trees beyond the camps, watching, considering. While his presence wasn’t threatening, Líadan did find it unnerving. Perhaps his observations were his way of trying to learn who she was now, instead of who she’d been as a small child. She believed he’d be better served learning such things if he talked with her instead of at her or down to her, but she knew that every person had their own way of learning. She decided against mentioning it to Malcolm, because he probably _would_ find it creepy. 

“What are you looking at?” Nuala quietly asked her as Líadan watched Emrys finally head from the dark shadows of the trees to the Suriel camp.

Líadan glanced around them to verify that Malcolm was still immersed in his game of Diamondback with Kennard, Bethany, and Ariane. Oisín had declined to play, but remained to observe the game. Satisfied Malcolm wouldn’t hear since he was on the other side of the camp, Líadan turned back to Nuala. “Emrys was watching. He does it every time he visits. I guess he took your advice to heart.”

A scowl marred Nuala’s features. “If he really was taking my advice, he’d have spoken to you by now, or his clan would stop giving you such a hard time.” She motioned toward Líadan’s middle with one of her hands. “Not like anyone can’t see the difficulty you’re having if they take more than one look at you.”

“I’m fine, really.” She knew it was a half-hearted reply, but said it through reflex.

“You’re lying to yourself if you really believe that.”

“Maybe.” Líadan shifted her focus back to the trees, wishing she could still draw her knees up to her chest. She felt protected when she sat that way, and now she was left without barrier.

“I lied to myself for a long time after my daughter died. Nowadays, I’m fine more often than not, but I have moments. They just get shorter and more spread out. Shianni once told me—rather forcefully, mind you—that being scared or allowing yourself to grieve doesn’t mean you’re weak. Strength is in how you deal with it, whether you plow through by yourself, or accept the help of friends and family. The main thing is that they have to be dealt with, not ignored, which means not lying to yourself.”

“It’s easier.”

“At first. Then it catches up with you. Trust me when I say it’s better to not let that happen.”

The memory that Nuala had lost her infant daughter not even a year ago, that she must be reminded of what her daughter would have been like whenever she saw Cáel learning new things, struck Líadan. It brought sorrow with it, and the need to rid Nuala of the pain. “I’m sorry,” she said. The subject couldn’t be a comfortable one for the other woman. “We can discuss something else.”

“Oh, no. I brought it up, so you can just sit right there and talk about some of these things. I’ve seen your despondent look after your visits with the Suriel, back when you bothered, and the wistful one you sometimes get when you look at your grandfather walking away from here. I’ve seen the shit the other Dalish have given you over this kid you’re having, and it isn’t like you can hide it from them. So, how worried are you?”

Líadan’s brow furrowed. There were many things she was worried about. Too many to list, really, and each held a different degree of concern. Then she found herself saying thoughts out loud that she hadn’t voiced before. “If she’ll be okay. If this trip was a bad idea and she’ll end up being born early, which Wynne has strongly cautioned could mean a quick end to her life. She hasn’t been able to determine beyond the vague window of a month how far along I am. If she hasn’t grown enough, she won’t be able to breathe or feed properly, and there’s nothing a healer can do about that. They can’t accelerate growth in people and animals, only plants. If she comes early, I might just...” She gritted her teeth against the overwhelming worry, and flung her hand toward the Suriel camp. “All of this would be for nothing, because we’d have to watch her die.”

“It wouldn’t be a relief, to be unburdened of an elf-blooded child?”

“No!” Líadan clapped her hand over her mouth, astonished at the outburst, and wanting it to end. Slowly, she allowed her hand to drop to what was left of her lap, carefully avoiding her belly, where her daughter would surely have kicked. “But it should, like it would be for Emrys, and both are horrible things to think. One is horrible for the Dalish, the other is horrible for anyone to feel about their own child. And then telling _you_ about it, when—”

Nuala placed a gentle hand on Líadan’s arm. “I’m the one who asked you, remember? If it wasn’t something I’d be able to handle talking about, I wouldn’t have brought it up. If it helps you any, it’s a normal fear, at least it was for me. The part about having your child be born only to watch them die. Some of the older mothers in the Alienage told me it’s a fear you’ll carry for the rest of your life, unless that fear comes to pass. No matter if they’re newborns or grown adults, you’ll always worry about losing them. I’ll tell you this: it’s a horrible thing to lose them, but it isn’t the end of the world. It is, for a time, and sometimes a very long time, but you live on and carry the memory, however short it might be, with you. But you can’t let the fear eat away at you, or you won’t enjoy whatever time you have.”

Líadan nodded, unable to put her thoughts into words.

“Oh, and sod the Dalish. All right, not all, if I’m honest. Maybe just the Suriel and about half those new Wardens. We might have to add the Mahariel to the list, but that remains to be seen. Here’s the truth of the matter: for all the Suriel aren’t accepting of you as you are, Lanaya’s clan is, and so are Ariane and Oisín and the other half of the Dalish Wardens. Maybe your grandfather will come around, maybe not. He’s pretty old, I gather. Set in his ways. You can’t live in want for his approval.”

“I’m not.” Because she knew better. She’d repeatedly told herself the same.

“Could have fooled me.”

She sighed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried her best to stay disconnected from Emrys, but memory was hard to resist, and the ties of family had a strong pull.

Nuala gave her arm a squeeze and withdrew her hand. “It’s all right. Everyone’s the same way when it comes to family. Just means you’re no different. So,” she said, her tone changing to mark a shift in topic, “if this girl were to arrive early, you figure out yet how you’ll go about feeding her if she can do it properly? Will I need to be teaching you to feed her? I’m not sure how much you know.”

“I can’t.” The inadequacy washed over her in a wave of disappointment in herself, that her rash actions had left her tainted, left her unable to feed the one child she would bear. “My milk would poison her. So there’s another reason why I have to hope she doesn’t come early, or—”

“If you tell me it’s because she won’t have a wet nurse, you’ve got one sitting right next to you. I don’t mind. In fact, I rather like the job. I’d be insulted if you didn’t ask, and I partly assumed that to be one reason why you had us come along instead of leaving us at the Vigil. I’d be happy to nurse your daughter, should she be early or arrive right when she needs to.” Nuala tilted her head to the side, as if realizing how presumptuous her statements could have sounded. “Well, if you’ll have me.”

“Please.” A small knot of tension within Líadan loosened and unwound at hearing Nuala’s offer.

“Consider it done.”

Then they sat in a friendly silence until the Diamondback game became raucous before it ended, and the travelers crawled into their tents or aravels to rest before the journey resumed in the morning. Líadan was tangled up by the demon’s dreams, fooled by a reality where her child was born Dalish, where she could feed her child, where they both were accepted and loved without the questioning she got outside the Beyond. But among the Suriel, she’d noticed the absence of her grandfather, and saw the dream for what it was. His absence was too conspicuous to miss, and the dream collapsed when it couldn’t quickly enough render an explanation for it. All the demon managed was to say Emrys was dead, and Líadan had immediately known it couldn’t have been true. Emrys was too stubborn and long-lived to get around to actually dying.

The next morning, whatever her confidence in her ability to live had been in the Beyond, she was grateful to catch sight of him as he stood between the two camps, supervising both the clan and the other party packing up to leave. He held her gaze for a long moment, and she did not look away. Then he nodded, his expression inscrutable, yet it did not hold the disappointment or condemnation she’d grown accustomed to. What it meant, she wasn’t sure. While she didn’t dare hope it to be for the good, at least it wasn’t a portent for things becoming worse.

Not among themselves, at least. Outsiders were another matter entirely.


	60. Chapter 60

  
“There was a terrible sound then, as if the whole forest were crying out in protest. Darkness fell upon the camp, though it was just past midday. ”

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****Templars and Seekers caught up with them outside Verchiel, right before they were to cut through the Heartlands and start north. Already, the clan and their company had dodged previous Seeker and templar patrols, but this force was the largest they’d encountered, and the narrow spit of land between the two sides of the far western inlet of the Waking Sea left them no escape but through armed conflict.

The Suriel hunters sent out as scouts were the first to catch the flare of the sun glinting off the templars’ helmets in the brush ahead of them. They came running back to the line of aravels, shouting warnings in Elvish and telling the rest of the hunters to prepare. Clan members unable to fight or who’d been designated to protect the young and the old scurried into the safety of the solid wooden walls of the aravels. Without encouragement from their drivers, the halla brought the aravels closer, moving in a tight formation that would be easier for the hunters to protect. Said hunters slipped out along the sides of the convoy to set upon the templars, if they not heed the one warning Emrys would give them—they never did, not that Líadan could recall, but the warning was always given by the clans she knew. 

Not ones to be left behind, Malcolm, Bethany, and Kennard snatched up the weapons they kept close by, and then hopped down from the aravels they rode on. Malcolm glanced up at Líadan, and she could see the argument for her to remain behind poised on his lips.

Much as she wanted to go, to be part of the force at the front line, like a hunter should be, she knew she’d be a hindrance. Knowing didn’t make her feel useful, nor did it make her feel better, but it did serve to make her less argumentative. “I’ll stay,” she said. 

Malcolm nodded slowly, and then the determined look in his eyes gained a mischievous glint. He brought the hilt of his sword up in salute before trotting off behind the hunters, Bethany and Kennard with him.

“What was that?” Líadan shouted after him. 

“It’s called gallantry,” Malcolm yelled over his shoulder, slowing just a tad to reply. “It was my one chance to play knight in shining armor to your fair maiden, so I took it.” 

Who did he think he was, treating her like she wasn’t a warrior in her own right? “Soon as this child is out, I’ll show you what you can do with your gallantry! Save that for men and women who can’t fight for themselves!” She noticed that he’d run beyond shouting distance and had no chance of hearing her, which sent her into aggravated grumbling. “I’ll fair maiden _him_ , that’s what I’ll do.”

“Not that you aren’t entertaining, but I know you’re a good shot,” said Ariane. “So feel free to use that bow of yours from here if those templars don’t listen to the Keeper.”

Líadan sighed. Irritation with Malcolm had been much better than the impending fight with the templars. “They never listen.”

“Exactly. Grab your quiver. Keeper Emrys is already approaching them.”

They couldn’t hear intelligible words from their spot near the back of the caravan, but body language told them enough. Even as Emrys called out his warnings, the templars were readying smites and weapons. Just as she and Ariane saw from the back, the flanking hunters and Wardens saw from the sides, and they charged before the templars unleashed anything on the Keeper. The crash of shields and swords, the screams of the injured, the pelting thuds of landing arrows carried back to them.

Líadan gritted her teeth and remained where she’d taken a post on the top of the aravel. Every instinct told her to join in the close battle with the others, even though she’d downed two templars from where she stood with her bow. But it was a hunter’s duty that compelled her, a hunter’s duty to not only provide for the clan, but to protect it. Reconciling the idea that she would be considered, _was_ considered, one needing the protection at this point was infuriating. She didn’t want protection, didn’t need protection, and yet she could no longer run quickly, could no longer ride a horse, and fatigued far too easily. She’d become a weakness to be exploited by the enemy.

She did not like it.

However, not liking something did not change the truth within it. So, she remained on top of the aravel, and contented herself with firing very long distance shots, if only to give herself something to do other than seethe from where she was, far away from the battle.

The Wardens and hunters soon broke the lines of the templar skirmish party, infiltrating their ranks enough that Líadan and the other distanced archers could no longer safely fire into the fray. Líadan’s frustration returned with a vengeance, and she headed for the aravel’s ladder, confident in that the battle was likely won, which meant it would be safe for her to engage. 

Ariane did not agree, and her hand flashing out to tightly grip Líadan’s upper arm proved it. Líadan jerked to a halt above the ladder, and she used the momentum to turn on her fellow hunter, prepared to unleash the temper she’d been holding back. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Nuala said from the opened hatch in the aravel’s wooden top.

Maybe, for once, she _wanted_ to be exactly that, because it would let her fight. She glared at Nuala, and then glanced at the ladder again, scheming how she’d worm her way out of Ariane’s grip and get to the skirmish.

“I’ll sit on you, don’t think I won’t,” said Ariane, who’d noticed where Líadan’s attention had gone. “I know you want to fight. Panowen used to complain about the same thing when she carried Elin, and for the month afterward while she recovered to full strength. She complained a lot, and we never even really got into battles. It was just the hunting, so I can’t imagine how it is for you right now. But my job with staying back here is to protect those who have to stay out of the battle if they can. Like it or not, you’re one of them. So even if I have to protect you from yourself, I will. I might have to sit on your legs instead of your middle, but it’ll be enough a delay for the battle to be over by the time you squirmed free.” Her dominant hand still holding Líadan’s arm, Ariane set down her bow with the other. “Actually, you know what? Try it. I’m bored just watching the battle from here. This will make the time pass faster.”

“I hate this.”

“You’ve certainly communicated that effectively,” said Nuala.

They couldn’t understand, not really. They couldn’t understand, nor could she explain to them, that this would have been an enemy she could successfully fight. Unlike the demon, once templars were slain, they remained so. The demon just kept returning, kept fighting, kept creating those infernal dreams of his and she had no idea when or if one would eventually fool her completely. Then her personal battle would be lost, and she wouldn’t have protected anyone. She couldn’t get her body to relax, not with the need to fight thrumming through it. 

“Not letting go,” said Ariane. “And not looking away, either. Nuala, can you see what’s going on in the battle? The noise has gone down, so it might be over, or nearly so.”

Nuala craned her neck in order to see over the aravel’s short rail. “They’re done, I think. They’re milling about instead of using their weapons.”

“Excellent.” Ariane let go. 

Without bothering to acknowledge the two women who’d held her back for her own good, Líadan slid down the ladder as fast as she could, and did her best to run up to the remnants of the battle. It took longer than she thought it would, and she knew her gait had lost its smoothness. But she’d never call it a waddle. Grey Wardens, hunters, _warriors_ did not waddle.

In front of the long line of aravels, Líadan found the hunters moving through the scattered templar bodies, checking for survivors. From what Líadan knew of the Suriel, and the Dalish she’d been before her first encounter with the eluvian, she knew full well that the survivors would not be so for long. If allowed to live and escape, they would give away the position and strength of the clan. It wasn’t a risk they could take, much like it had been when Marethari and some Mahariel hunters had taken care of the templar bodies left behind in the wake of Líadan and her parents. When she approached the scene, she did her best to keep her mind from delving into her past and changing the present to fit what still occasionally crept into her nightmares.

At first, she couldn’t see Malcolm, though he stood significantly taller than the elven hunters. She saw Bethany healing injuries on some of the hunters, and Kennard walking around nearby. Fear raced through her before she caught sight of him standing closer to the aravels, Emrys a mere step away from him, both almost hidden by the front of an aravel. Both looked to be unhurt. Emrys hadn’t a speck of blood or dust on him, while Malcolm had more than a few spatters of blood on his tabard. He’d raised the visor on his helm, and there was a smear of dubious-looking grime across his chin. 

“You fought well,” the Keeper was telling him. “It would seem the Grey Wardens continue to bring the best warriors into their ranks.”

Malcolm gave a non-committal grunt as he cleaned off his sword with an increasingly bloody rag. Then he said, “Thanks, I suppose,” without looking up from his task.

“You suppose?” asked Emrys, his eyebrow arching in warning.

“To be honest, I’m waiting for the inevitable insult that follows even your most neutral of statements.” He finally looked over at Emrys as he sheathed his cleaned sword. “You’re really not so good at being neutral.”

“In all my years, I’ve not met a more impudent young man. Whether it is your strength or your folly remains to be seen.” Arms held straight at his sides, Emrys walked off to conference with a cluster of his clan’s hunters.

“And that was the insult I was waiting for,” Malcolm muttered as Líadan approached him. “Out of curiosity, how old is your grandfather?” he asked her.

She frowned. “Not sure. I never asked. Why?”

“He seems old.”

Her eyes flicked over to where Emrys stood, the touches of gray in his hair a clear indication of his advancing age. Obviously, he was old. “He _is_ a grandfather,” she told Malcolm, because ‘no shit’ wasn’t something she wanted to say to him in mixed company.

He shook his head. “No, it’s more than that. Behind his eyes, his soul is ancient. As in, his soul makes Marethari look young in comparison.”

“Feel free to ask him yourself.” She still had yet to speak with her grandfather after the conversation he’d had with Nuala. His nod had been their only real communication, and she still didn’t know what it meant, so she certainly wouldn’t be doing the asking. Emrys was the elder. If he truly wanted to sort things out between them, he would make the effort. Admittedly, part of her was curious, because she knew for a fact that Emrys was much older than Marethari, yet for as long as Líadan could remember, Marethari’s hair had been grey. She supposed it could have something to do with how the Suriel rarely came into contact with humans, but she wasn’t going to ask.

Malcolm glanced over at Emrys, who was still deep in conversation with the Suriel hunters. Before the Keeper could notice the younger man’s scrutiny, Malcolm quickly returned his attention to Líadan. “Pass. I can live without knowing.” Then he sighed. “I suppose I should gather the Chantry amulets to give to... someone, when we get back to Denerim. Maybe Mother Boann? She’d be less likely to ask pointed questions. I’m not giving them to Seeker Cassandra. She’d probably gut me with that dagger she keeps hidden away. Somewhere. I swear, it magically appears in her hand.” He shuddered for effect, leaned his shield against the hitch of the aravel, dropped his helm next to it, and headed toward the templar bodies the hunters were dragging into a pile. After he checked to see if she was following him, he asked over his shoulder, “So, how much force did Ariane have to use to keep you from running up here?”

She scowled, both at the hint of humor in his tone, and that he knew her so well that he’d known she’d tried to join the fight. “I didn’t have to be petrified, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Only because Ariane lacks the ability.”

Líadan refused to concede the point, though it was a valid one. “How many were there?” she asked as she nudged one of the templar bodies with her boot.

“Twenty, give or take. I imagine we’ll get a real count when all the bodies are in one place. Bethany suggested giving them some sort of service to see them to the Maker. Not sure whether it’s out of respect or common courtesy, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. We can’t know which ones were simply following orders, or if any of them were like Alistair before Duncan rescued him, or if they’re like Renaud was. Since we can’t know, better to see them all as properly interred as we can.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Bethany and Kennard and me, I suppose.” He glanced up at her from where he’d bent to remove an amulet. “I certainly wasn’t going to ask any of the Dalish, including you. I made Bethany ask Keeper Emrys, and the only thing that got him to agree to the delay was the logic that burning the bodies made more sense, so they couldn’t be used against us if demons slipped through the Veil after the fighting. You don’t even have to set them on fire, if you don’t want. You’ve seen Bethany’s fireballs. Bigger than Velanna’s were.” When she didn’t crack a smile, he sighed again. “All right, Anders would’ve liked that one. Pity he isn’t here.”

“If Anders were here, we wouldn’t be traveling to Kirkwall.”

“There you go, getting all logical again. We’ve just had a battle where I had to fight a large number of people I never thought would be my enemy. I’m a bit muddled.” He broke another slender chain and pocketed the amulet he slid off it. 

She’d meant her statement in jest, but now saw that Malcolm was off, somehow. Normally after a quick, victorious battle, he was clear-headed and somewhat giddy. This time, he seemed run down and deeply perplexed, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. “What do you mean?” she asked quietly, wishing she could kneel beside him and help without the spectacle that her attempting to stand up afterward would be. She had to make do with crouching, which wasn’t what she wanted.

He snapped off an arrow sticking out from the throat of a third templar, where it had struck a gap between her helm and ill-fitting gorget. After tossing it aside, he hooked a finger in between the neck and the steel, hunting for an amulet chain. “I’m not sure. I guess it bothers me more than I thought, to think of the Chantry as an enemy, and wondering when that had happened, exactly.” His finger caught on the chain and he carefully drew it up from behind the cuirass. “The Chantry was never this specter of confusion and possible danger when I was a kid. Mostly, it was candles and incense and Mother Mallol’s instruction at the chapel in Highever. Aside from the time I knocked over the copy of the Chant kept on the chapel’s lectern, and as punishment, she forced me to scour clean the entire chapel and its storage rooms, I was never anything less than fond of her.” The amulet came out into his hands. He snapped off the chain and let it fall through his fingers into the damp dirt. “To align her with whatever the Chantry and templars have become, it just feels strange. Like they aren’t the same thing. But they are. Sort of.” He grimaced and stood up. “See what I mean? Muddled.”

Líadan wanted to help, but she really had no idea where to start or what she could do. For her, the human Chantry had always been the enemy, and never a friend. Those who came from the Chantry who were her friends weren’t still _part_ of the Chantry itself. They didn’t speak or act for the Chantry; they spoke and acted for themselves. They didn’t hunt down mages, calling them apostates and maleficarum. They didn’t murder families for protecting their children from being kidnapped and taken to their mage prisons. She was having a hard enough time distancing herself from the array of dead templars and the Dalish elves walking around them reminding her of what she’d encountered when she’d gone to find her parents. 

A hand grasped her by the elbow, bumping her out of her spiraling thoughts. She turned to find Malcolm looking down at her, the earnestness in his expression telling her he’d guessed to where her thoughts had gone. “Don’t worry about figuring out how to help,” he said. “I’m not sure if this is the kind of thing that can be helped from the outside. I suspect I’ll have to work through it in my head. It’ll take some sorting, but I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, become more haunted every second we stand here.”

“I’m fine.” Maybe if she said it enough times or thought it enough, it would be true. Certainly, it was true for the time being. Whether or not it remained that way, she couldn’t be certain.

“And in other unlikely news, griffons have been rediscovered in the Anderfels, Tevinter has formed an alliance with the Qunari, darkspawn are really just misunderstood, and—”

Líadan punched him in the space between his tasset and cuirass, where only the brigandine underneath protected him, and he might have felt the hit. He probably wouldn’t, but it made her feel better when it got him to shut up.

Her victory of his silence was rather short-lived. Malcolm grinned at her. The way his face lit up was such a dramatic shift from his seriousness earlier that it served to lighten her own mood. “There’s the woman I married,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself. “Much better.”

She did her best to ignore the various noises of disapproval from some of the Dalish within earshot, trying to feel just the warmth of his gaze and the heady effect it had on her when it became this concentrated and intense. It was something about his eyes, and she’d hoped—once she’d allowed herself to think of her child’s future at all—that their child would have his eyes, like Cáel did. The impulse to kiss him struck her, and she resisted it out of want of keeping the peace with the Suriel around them. Only then did she recognize she was as sick of the Suriel’s judgement as she’d become of Fenarel’s judgement when they visited the Mahariel, and she was sick of changing her own behavior when they were already giving her the worst treatment they could in shunning her like an exile. 

There was no reason for her to hide what she felt even when among the Dalish, and certainly no reason to stop herself from displays of affection out of some strange sense of propriety. Unlike her so-called People, Malcolm had made an effort to help her feel better, he knew her well enough that he managed to keep her from miring in unpleasant memory, and most of all, she loved him. So, heedless of the muck on Malcolm’s chin, she pulled him down by his cuirass to her level and kissed him. It was gentle and just enough for her to express to him how she felt, and she would have dared to make it more if not for the awkwardness the bulk of her middle created for them. It was an obstacle in the best of circumstances, which this circumstance was nothing near.

A smile remained at the corner of his mouth when he drew away from her. “Not going to ask what that was for. I’ll take what I can get.” His brows drew into a frown and he leaned slightly down to study her face. “Except, now you’ve got—ugh, that’s pretty gross. Actually, not pretty at all. Just gross. I’m not even sure what that is. Was. Whichever. Ew.” He fetched a rag from the pouch at his belt and thrust it towards her, only to realize that it was covered in blood and the same suspect grime. “Nevermind that one.” He threw it toward what would soon be a pyre. “Except I haven’t got another.”

Right, the grime on his face, which was probably now on hers, and with the moment over, she was quite heedful of whatever nastiness that graced her chin, as well.

Another rag was thrust between them, held in Kennard’s gauntleted hand. “I’ve a clean one. Here.” Since the guard’s armor was reasonably clean, though he’d been in the thick of battle with the others, Líadan wondered at how he had any clean rags left. Her look must have betrayed the direction of her thoughts, because Kennard rolled his eyes and said, “I end up carrying way more than I should because Nuala says she can’t carry enough with how much dirt Cáel gets into. It’s easier to just carry extra rags than it is to argue, so there you go.”

“Well, thank the Creators for your willingness to go along with things,” Líadan said after she’d gotten the grime off her face. Then she handed the rag to Malcolm. “Your turn.”

As Malcolm began the process of cleaning up his own face and armor, Kennard shot a glance behind them at the templar bodies. “Right,” he said as he returned his look to Malcolm and Líadan, “so the clean rags aren’t the reason I came over here. Real reason is that I noticed something odd about this little raiding party as I helped search through the bodies. I know we’re assuming they’d have been sent by an irate Seeker Cassandra, but now I’m not sure. There aren’t any Seekers among the dead. Not one. Now, an irate Seeker Cassandra, she’d want you dragged back to Denerim, kicking and screaming, just she could yell at you something good for up and leaving, because that’s how she is. But these templars, they didn’t have plans on taking anyone alive. Every one of them was going for the kill.” He sighed, took note of how filthy the rag he’d given them had gotten, fetched another out of a pouch, and handed it to Malcolm. “My job just got a lot harder.”

Líadan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What I’m starting to believe is that the Seekers didn’t find all those zealous templars like they thought they did. And, despite their claims that Ser Renaud has been put out of power and sent into retirement, he’s still got some influence over the templar ranks.” He waved at the body-littered clearing behind them. “Unless this was the last splinter group, which I doubt. So this lyrium-mad, overzealous former Knight-Vigilant has it out for the kid I’m supposed to protect, and he’s got an unknown amount of templars who’ll help him get Cáel. Makes me think...” Kennard trailed off, which was perplexing. He’d never been one to withhold his opinions, and had always been actively encouraged to give them. Kennard had a keen mind.

“Think what?” asked Malcolm.

Kennard grimaced as he balled up the rag Malcolm had handed back to him. His eyes flicked over to the aravels, to the Dalish elves who were bringing the last templar body to the makeshift pyre, and then back to Líadan and Malcolm. “Sometimes, I wonder if the boy would’ve been better off sticking with the Dalish. Disappearing in the forests like they can do, well. Seems like it’d be a lot safer than having him kept supposedly-safe behind castle walls, yet having everyone know where he is. We all know how that turned out for us with the Seekers and those wayward templars. I’d rather not have that happen again. Luck got us out safely that time, not skill or preparation, and you two had to put yourselves in way too much danger to ensure our escape. I was told what happened to both of you, afterward. From what Panowen and Ariane told me of Cáel’s life before Morrigan gave him up, he was kept incredibly safe among the Dalish. It wasn’t so much walls that protected him, but the inability to find him.”

“Even if the Dalish were an option,” said Líadan, “which they aren’t, the only clan that would be open to the possibility would be the Ra’asiel. We’ve no idea where on Thedas they are, and no way to find them unless they want to be found. Which is your point, I know.” She didn’t disagree that Kennard was right. The safest place for Cáel to be on Thedas was with one of the clans who were the best among the Dalish at staying away from human civilization. The Suriel were at the top of the list, but they would never accept a human amongst them for an indefinite amount of time. The allowance of Malcolm, Kennard, Bethany, and Cáel to accompany the Suriel as they traveled was unprecedented, and it already had pushed the limits of the Suriel’s tolerance. Líadan also had no intentions of leaving her son with others, the clan requiring a parent to remain with him not withstanding. Cáel had already gone through the loss of one mother when Morrigan had chosen—for his own good—to leave him with her and Malcolm, and Líadan wouldn’t put him through that again. She’d given her word, and she would keep it. “And it’s more complicated than just finding an agreeable clan and handing him over. I’d be going with him. Not only would I choose to remain with him, because I will not let him suffer the loss of another mother, but the clan would require it.”

“And I wouldn’t be allowed, would I?” Malcolm asked quietly.

She shook her head, the very idea of having to leave him behind causing a pain in her chest she couldn’t identify. If it came to it, it was a sacrifice they would both make for the sake of their son, but it would hurt. “No. Not by any clan except the Ra’asiel, and they might not be seen again until the next Arlathvhen. That would be ten years from now, if nothing world-shattering happens, like another Blight.”

“So if Cáel ever needed to go into hiding, I’d lose all three of you.” Malcolm swore under his breath, his hand moving over his cuirass like he felt the same pain as Líadan. “You know, it’s almost worth considering cooperation with the Seekers to make sure Renaud’s not-so-little faction is wiped out for good.” He grumbled and shook himself, ridding his mind of the painful possibility of the future. “Nothing that needs to be done right now, or even can be. Let’s go make quick work of sending those templars to the Maker. If we postpone it any longer, I might become tempted to refuse them proper rites.”

Though Emrys used his magic to render the smoke from the pyre colorless, Líadan still imagined she could see it rising into the sky, a beacon of their presence to any who wanted to look.

Their group and the Suriel clan traveled further into the evening than usual in an attempt to put distance between their caravan and the site of the templar ambush. Once they’d found an appropriate place to overnight, the tasks of setting up camp with the aravels and the tents, the hunters scouting and placing traps, and preparation of the late meal stole a large chunk of time from the scant remaining light. Their slow northward trek had taken them to climes far warmer than Ferelden, and with the relative warmth came slightly longer days, but they ran through that time, as well. It left them to finish in the dim twilight before Mythal’s moon took to the sky.

The lateness and the noisy, necessary activity served to prevent Cáel from sleeping, and the tired boy made his displeasure loudly known. Nuala made several attempts at distracting him while she helped with other camp tasks. At the same time, Kennard and Malcolm aided in setting up tents and whatever else Ariane ordered them to do, allowing them no opportunity to help with Cáel. Left with no tasks of her own, Líadan assumed there had to be something she could do to hasten things along. 

“All right, give me a task,” she said to Nuala.

“No, you’re fine,” Nuala replied without looking up.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I’m not an invalid. Let me help.” She felt useless, her son was cranky, _she_ was cranky, and if her doing something would help, she’d gladly do it. “I’ll watch Cáel. He’s eaten, so there’s no immediate reason why you have to keep an eye on him while you’ve got other things to do. I’m capable enough of distracting my own son.”

“Of course you are. But there’s the fact that he’s a solid little boy and you aren’t supposed to lift heavy things.” Nuala finally looked up from where she’d been attempting to clean some of the rags and clothing that had looked to be salvageable after the battle. “Don’t argue. Orders from Wynne. She specifically pointed it out when she noticed how well-built Cáel is. ‘Deceptively heavy’ is the term she used. Another term she used was ‘magic can do some very uncomfortable things if used in certain ways’ in regards to letting you exert yourself too much. Oh, wait, that was a threat, not a term. Take it up with her.”

“Wynne isn’t here,” said Líadan.

Nuala gave her a flat look. “Really.”

Cáel let go of the rock he’d been using to stand, tried to take a step, as he’d been doing a lot lately, and promptly stumbled and fell into the grass. He let out a wail that had more to do with his tiredness than being hurt. Líadan whisked him up before anyone could argue, and he immediately quieted.

“Stop giving me that look,” Líadan said to Nuala, who’d frowned at her for not heeding her warning. “Someone has to distract him, and I’d be happy to.”

Cáel let out another whine at being awake, causing Nuala to sigh. “All right. I’ll stop objecting. Just find somewhere to sit with him, if you can. Don’t carry him too much.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Nuala snorted in disbelief. “Sure you are. Just keep staying fine unless you really want to give birth out here in the damp forest.”

The reminder from Nuala of how damp the woods that clung to the edge of the Waking Sea were helped Líadan think of a distraction that might work on the increasingly cranky Cáel. She hefted him in her arms, putting most of his weight against her shoulder, and headed outside the circle of firelight. There, she found exactly what was needed to distract a child of any age—fireflies. 

She pointed, and Cáel slowly caught on and followed to where her finger led. His complaining halted as his eyes noticed the glowing lights. He squealed and squirmed in her arms in an attempt to get free so he could crawl after the mysterious lights. She would have let him, except the long, soft grass was covered with dew. His brief tumble hadn’t gotten him too wet, but an extended foray into the grass would leave him soaked and in dire need of a bath. “Those are fireflies,” she told him.

His babble slowed as he looked between her and the moving lights, as if considering what she’d said and trying to make the connection.

“The People attribute them to Mythal when they’re the same color as Mythal’s light, like these ones are.” As Líadan continued telling him the Dalish myth, Cáel’s look became serious, scrutinizing, and he eventually turned to just watch her speak. “It’s said that Mythal guides these creatures to help light our way in the twilight before her moon rises to light our paths.” She laughed softly at his solemn expression. “You can chase the next time we see them, so long as there isn’t dew on the ground, _da’len_.” Here, in the dim light and the semi-quiet, without thought given to human and elven, she was at peace with her role. She could imagine what it would have been like, had she never found the eluvian with Tamlen, had she stayed with her clan, bonded, and had children, and instead of the painful nostalgia, she felt contented. The boy she held was her son, human birth mother or not, and she would tell him the same Dalish myths she’d heard from her own parents as a child.

Her story appeared to satisfy him, and he returned to watching the fireflies in rapt delight.

If Líadan hadn’t been a hunter trained not to react suddenly at being startled, she would have jumped when Emrys’ voice said from behind her, “You care for the human’s son as if he were your own.”

It seemed that just when they got the child’s complaining halted, an adult had to start up their own. The peaceful contentedness of the moment with her son was gone, taken by Emrys’ undisguised hostility. “I gave my word to Morrigan that I would,” she said to him. She kept her voice soft so that Cáel would remain soothed, yet gave her tone just enough bite that Emrys would know she meant what she said.

There was a significant pause before Emrys asked, “ _Asha’belannar_ ’s daughter? That Morrigan?”

“Yes.” Creators, she’d assumed he already knew this. It wasn’t like she and the others hadn’t openly discussed Morrigan amongst themselves. Or if he hadn’t overheard them, he had to  have heard at some point during the Arlathvhen, especially since he’d been told the rest of the story. Or maybe no one had seen fit to tell him if he’d reacted poorly to other parts. That was always a possibility. “I will not break my word, human child or not.”

Another pause, and then Emrys was standing next to her, studying Cáel with the same scrutiny Cáel had focused on Líadan. “Then he is the grandson of _Asha’belannar_.”

“So it would seem.” The impulse to snap at him, to spark the argument once more, welled briefly within her before it gave up and faded away. She was tired. The day had been long enough and she didn’t want to fight any longer that day, even if the fight wasn’t yet over. A break, however, wasn’t something she’d turn down, and so she kept the rest of her reply to herself.

Emrys nodded, extending his hand as if to touch Cáel’s head before he caught himself and withdrew it. “Then it is even more understandable that you would keep your promise.” Something in his tone had changed, the disapproval somehow not as strong as when he’d greeted her before. He cleared his throat. “Care for him well, _da’len_. Crossing _Asha’belannar_ would be unwise.”

Her curiosity overrode her unwillingness to risk an argument. “You know this from personal experience?” As she asked, Cáel began to resume his sounds of displeasure. 

“That is a story for another time.” Emrys glanced down at the increasingly unhappy Cáel, the fireflies having lost their entrancing effect on the overtired child. “For now, it’s best left alone. Your...” He paused there, his fingers hovering above the boy’s head before they stroked Cáel’s hair in the lightest of touches. Emrys released a long breath as he let go of one of his points of contention. “...son,” he continued, his tone almost devoid of the displeasure Líadan would have expected from him when uttering such a statement regarding a human child, “has long passed his bedtime, like many of the clan’s children. If he goes much longer, he will sleep poorly tonight.” 

Líadan stared at him in shock, wondering if Emrys was perhaps possessed. Maybe the spirit of sloth had found him and gained some advantage no one would have imagined.

The Keeper brushed his fingertips across Cáel’s forehead before he muttered something under his breath, something Líadan didn’t catch.

Then he disappeared into the trees, the fireflies his escort.


	61. Chapter 61

  
“And in my darkest hour, I turned from Her

 and vowed that I would destroy Her.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Meghan**

****Meghan was well-appointed in Highever’s Denerim estate, the Queen herself even having given her two of her own vetted ladies-in-waiting. The suite the teyrn had provided was more than adequate, the staff warm and thoughtful, and the air about the building not fraught with suffocating tension, which was a welcome relief from the Redcliffe estate.

The teyrn conducted himself admirably. He did not have fits of temper, nor did he seek to use Meghan as any sort of pawn, at least that she could tell. But the Couslands had been well known in the Free Marches, and they had never been a family known for politicking. Given their high position in Ferelden’s society, coupled with Bryce Cousland’s move of turning down the offer of Ferelden’s throne, they simply had no reason to play the game the lords and ladies of Thedas found themselves so often enmeshed in. 

Yet, the more Meghan observed the current teyrn, the more his demeanor puzzled her. He was never unfriendly, but there were times when he withdrew, turning almost skittish. Other glances revealed a sad, somber expression settling over his features for the briefest of moments before the teyrn was able to gather himself. Often, these lapses occurred when various knickknacks or small paintings turned up, quickly whisked away by the staff, but never quickly enough. The last of these had been a small, light, blunted sword, a perfect miniature of the sword the teyrn wore on his hip. A child’s sword, Meghan realized, the sort of sword given to a boy—or a girl, given that Fereldans believed men or women were perfectly capable knights or soldiers—who was to begin taking lessons in swordsmanship. 

The teyrn’s somber mood had persisted for the greater part of a day and well into the evening after the sword had been discovered. It was enough of a change in character that Meghan inquired one of her maids about it. 

“His Lordship lost his son when Highever was attacked at the start of the Blight,” came the softly spoken answer, as if anything said louder would offend the dead.

“How old?” Meghan had lost her own nephew at Starkhaven.

“Lord Oren was six, I believe, my lady.”

Not much older than her own nephew had been. “That’s horrible,” Meghan said out loud, though she believed it wasn’t enough to convey what she truly felt.

Her maid nodded, as if she understood. “That wasn’t all. He lost both his wife and his son that terrible night. Sometimes, when we do our cleaning, we come across some of Oren’s toys, or a bottle of Lady Oriana’s favorite scent. We try to hide it away before His Lordship sees it, but many times, we just aren’t quick enough. Memory is always faster, my lady. That sword—”

“I had it commissioned for Oren, to give to him on his nameday after we returned from Ostagar,” Fergus said softly from the open doorway. “Many never returned, and for those who did, nothing has been the same. For some soldiers, it meant that while they fought, they’d lost their families to darkspawn. For me, it meant I’d lost my family to the malevolent heart of a single man, no better than the darkspawn.” He sighed, and then dismissed the maid with a nod. Once she’d left, he shrugged. “Maybe one day I’ll give the sword to Cáel, instead. It’s a good sword, finely forged and balanced. Any child starting their arms training would be happy to have it. It would be a shame to see it go unused. If Cáel doesn’t appear to be interested in swordsmanship, maybe my niece will.” He blinked, clearing his memories, and focused on Meghan. “Pardon my rudeness. I didn’t even ask if I could enter.”

“Of course you can.” Meghan momentarily spread out her arms. “After all, this is your estate, Teyrn Cousland.”

His smile was small, but genuine. “It is, but that’s no excuse to dispense with manners. Everyone is entitled to their privacy, guests included.” He finished his walk into the room, and then dropped heavily into a chair. “And I offer my apologies if my behavior has brought up any unpleasant memories of your own. I know that you suffered the loss of your family more recently than I lost mine. Having those emotions dredged up is rather less than pleasant.”

“It’s all right. I was honestly more concerned about you. I do still have one of my older brothers. He’s in Kirkwall.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow. “Is he now?”

“Chantry brother.”

“Poor bastard.” Then he smiled again, a little wider. “I have my brother, as well. I believe you met him? Eamon tried to fix you up with him because of... reasons, I suppose. Only some of them make sense.”

“Arl Eamon tried to illustrate what Malcolm and I had in common by using what happened at Highever and comparing it to what happened at Starkhaven.”

Fergus cursed. “Who brings that up in polite company, much less while matchmaking?” He shook his head. “Eamon, that’s who. The man’s changed since the Blight. The more I hear of his behavior, the more he sounds like how Loghain was rumored to be after Ostagar. I worry that he’ll commit treason one day, in the same name of protecting Ferelden like Loghain, but treason nonetheless. He’s a believer in the line of Calenhad, but he has something against Alistair and my brother that I can’t seem to place. He supports them, yet I think only because he hasn’t any other Theirins to back. Maker help us if he finds another one, because he’d try to oust Alistair, and then my brother, in a hot second.”

“From what I heard during my stay, I’m not inclined to disagree.” Meghan felt somewhat better at hearing a Fereldan noble expressing some of the misgivings she’d had about Eamon’s behavior. It appeared she hadn’t been seeing things. “Do you know why he won’t completely support them?”

“Beats me. As long as they’re the only Theirins he’s got, I don’t think there will be an issue. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have wasted his time trying to match you up with my brother. Of course, Eamon overlooked the slight matter of Malcolm already being _married_ , but Eamon tends to view elves as less than the people he believes humans to be. In his eyes, that makes Líadan inconsequential, when in truth, she is anything but.”

“And how do you feel about your brother being married to her?” She couldn’t imagine anyone in her family who would have approved of a royal marrying an elf, no matter how honored or heroic or lauded. The resulting children were technically human, but even if you couldn’t tell they had elven blood, the blood still remained, and from then on it would always be in the family line. Well, provided the children were legitimate. There were certainly plenty of elf-blooded royal bastards throughout Thedas that most saw as no threat to any line.

“Perfectly fine.” Fergus grinned then, the first full smile Meghan had seen from him in the time she’d stayed at his estate. “I was a witness, actually. Lovely little Dalish ceremony that suited them both. Eamon really is barking up the wrong tree by trying to pressure my brother to leave her. He loves her. Any fool can see it, and they both sacrificed enough during the Blight and in being Grey Wardens to deserve whatever happiness they can find. We’ll just have to hope Eamon doesn’t try to advance his matchmaking beyond the royal family.”

Meghan found herself smiling. “Obviously, you and I would be the next best match.”

Fergus met her smile. “Of course. But what I think I would love is to have a friend.”

“Then we are of the same mind.” After a quiet moment, she asked, “So, what brought you in here?”

“Oh!” Fergus sat up straight. “I meant to warn you that Alistair is coming over this afternoon. Well, anytime now, judging by the clock. I figured you might need a warning, considering you aren’t Fereldan, and might be shocked by how casual we can be with our monarch. Granted, I tend to be more casual with him, but that’s only because he’s as much a brother to me as Malcolm is. At times, it’s like the three of us grew up together, and not just me and Malcolm.”

“Sometimes, I’m not too sure about that,” came a voice from the doorway. “Also, you left the door open. I suppose you knew that and were trying to avoid scandal or something. Well, now folks will _really_ be scandalized.” Alistair closed the door behind him as he stepped into the room. 

Meghan shot to her feet. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry if—”

Alistair waved her down. “Sit. Anyone who gets into it with Eamon like you did doesn’t need to stick to formality in private, and definitely not around the likes of Fergus.” When Meghan kept staring at the strange king, saying nothing, Alistair sighed. “Look, don’t make me make it a decree, because I would.”

“As you say.” Meghan sat back down, bewildered again at Fereldan behavior. It seemed fresh and honest, and yet it tended to make her uneasy.

“What’s this about you not being sure you’re like a brother to me?” asked Fergus. 

Alistair glanced over at Meghan, and then shrugged before returning to Fergus. “There was that part about you not only knowing that Malcolm had married, but you actually witnessed his bonding. I mean, he told you, and he never told me.”

Fergus rolled his eyes, and then turned serious. “That’s only because I forced him to after I figured out what he was planning. And I only figured it out because I know his tells. I’m certain that if you had as much practice as I have observing Malcolm’s idiosyncrasies, you’d have gotten it out of him, too. Come on. The only reason he didn’t tell you was because you’re King, not because you’re the lesser brother. So if you’re going to whine about him not telling you, at least use the right reason.” He settled back in his chair, his affable demeanor having returned. “Bit of a drag, being King, isn’t it?”

Alistair stared at the teyrn, and then said, “You have no idea. Truly. People only want the job because they don’t know how awful it is. You wouldn’t take it, would you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Lady Vael here is disqualified due to being a Marcher, so there’s another replacement down. Well, judging from what I’ve heard going on in taverns, there’s plenty of folks who think they could govern the country better than I could.” He stroked the scruff on his chin, as if he were considering it. “Maybe I should let them.”

“It would be phenomenally stupid,” said Fergus. “Their ideas sound great when you’re drunk and ready to fight, but not in the light of day when you’re wrestling a hangover that could take out a mabari. No declaring war on the Chantry, much as some of us might like to. It’d be the end of Ferelden if we did, Exalted March and all.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Teagan tell you that?”

“Not in those precise words, but yes. His version had more swearing, I think. I was rather drunk at the time, and I’m fairly certain one of the targets of his words of caution.”

As Meghan looked between the two men, she got the idea that this was a discussion they’d started before, and grew even more uncomfortable with being present for it. The chatting about their brotherhood had felt intrusive enough to witness, and she didn’t want to continue being the inadvertent intruder. She stood. “If you would excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve an appointment to get to.” She nodded in turn to Fergus and Alistair. “My Lord, Your Majesty.” Then she slipped out of the room, leaving the two men to their conversation.

A young messenger waited in the foyer, casting wary glances up at the guard next to him. Normally, Fergus had explained, Highever wasn’t so cautious, and the guards kept to the entryway. But the continued, though subdued, presence of the Seekers, coupled with the attack of one of the traitorous Seekers on Highever’s estate, made the teyrn wary of lax security. In the end, it meant visitors who weren’t a known quantity had a guard escort throughout the estate. This measure even went down to include messengers who were merely children. 

“Go on,” the guard said to the boy after another fearful look. “Give Lady Vael your message.”

The boy took a breath, fumbled in a pouch slung over his shoulder, and then presented Meghan with a parchment sealed with wax. “From Arlessa Isolde, my lady.”

“Does this require immediate reply?” Meghan asked as she opened the letter.

“Yes, my lady. I can wait; I don’t mind.”

It wasn’t like the lad had any other choice if he wished to keep on with his employment. Meghan’s eyebrow lifted as she read the contents of the letter. Isolde dearly wished to meet at the Chantry for the noon service. While Meghan had attended services now and then with Isolde even after Arl Eamon had withdrawn his offer of room and board, her invitations had never used words such as ‘dearly.’ She took the use of the new word to indicate this meeting was of some importance to the Arlessa. Wondering what it could be about, Meghan glanced away from the paper to look at the messenger. “Please tell the arlessa that I would be happy to meet her.”

“As you will,” the boy said with a bow. 

Meghan gave him a silver, and he was on his way. 

During the service, Isolde didn’t appear to be acting any differently that Meghan could see. While she wouldn’t exactly call Isolde a friend, Meghan thought her more than an acquaintance. During the great deal of time she’d spent with her during and after her stay at Redcliffe’s estate, Isolde had emerged as an interesting combination of Orlesian and Fereldan. She was still very much an Orlesian, her accent not softened, her views in keeping with Orlesian trends and fashion, and her dedication to the Chantry was strong. Yet her many years in Ferelden had rubbed off on her in other ways, roughing up, just a little, some of the gilded edges left by her Orlesian upbringing. Not that Meghan would bring it up in polite company, but the fact remained. Married to one of Ferelden’s more prominent and powerful nobles, yet herself descended from Orlesian usurpers from the Occupation, Isolde tread a very fine line, requiring a complicated balancing act to remain in Ferelden’s good graces. The incident that had occurred at Redcliffe during the Blight had damaged much of the good will Isolde had once had, but her work afterward had regained a small part of it.

Yet, the arlessa seemed to have a hint of worry around her eyes that Meghan hadn’t noticed before. Had Meghan not known from her sister-in-law how exhaustion looked with someone who had a newborn, she would have assumed it to be that. However, it wasn’t exhaustion. It was something anxiety-inducing, something causing a pervasive worry. 

After the service, Isolde indicated to Meghan to follow her to a far-off sitting room. The arlessa shut the door, and then stood for a long moment, staring at her fingers as they fidgeted. Meghan was about to ask her if something was wrong, when Isolde spoke. 

“I have no friends,” she said quietly.

What did one say to that? An apology didn’t seem to cover it, and it wasn’t like Meghan believed Isolde a friend of hers. The level of trust between them didn’t extend that far, though she wished no ill will on the other woman, and did at times enjoy her company.

Fortunately, Isolde continued without waiting for a reply from Meghan. “As such, I’ve no one to speak with about this, yet... I must speak with someone, or I fear I may lose my mind.” Isolde looked up and gave Meghan a small, crooked smile. “Or my head.”

“Or your...” Was it some sort of horrid joke on Isolde’s part? Or did she mean it?

Isolde sat down suddenly, placing her hands in her lap, even as they continued to wring together. “It is my husband. I am worried for my daughter.”

“Arl Eamon never seemed to me to be the kind who would hurt a child,” Meghan said, and then followed Isolde’s example and sat down. 

“No, no. He would never lay a hand on her in anger. It is just... what he speaks of now, after the Seekers came, after their battle amongst themselves in the King’s palace, it is concerning. Worrisome. At first, it seemed nothing more than his usual ranting, his usual complaints of magic sullying the Theirin bloodline. I thought it would stop, blow itself out like a like it always has, and it did not.”

Meghan listened intently, her eyes wide at the start of the dark implications.

Isolde went on, her eyes drifting downward again. “I have apologized for his outspokenness before, especially in recent days. He has always been defensive, because he defied the wishes of the rest of the Bannorn when he married me, an Orlesian. His defensiveness, I believe, has made him overly dedicated to the preservation of the line of Calenhad, and to their continued rule over Ferelden. After our Connor was revealed to be a mage, he began to fear magic in the Guerrin line, but especially Ferelden’s royal line.” She shifted in her seat, as if the overstuffed chair were uncomfortable. “It’s a fanaticism that has concerned me, as of late. His words, his plans, sometimes they dance too close to the line that must not be crossed.”

Slowly, Meghan began to realize why Isolde was making ill-timed jokes about keeping her head.

Isolde looked up from her lap to meet Meghan’s worried gaze, allowing Meghan to see the shine of forming tears in the other woman’s eyes. The words Isolde spoke were of very true, dangerous fears. “Listening to him now, I fear for my life. I fear for my daughter’s life. He has insisted, more than once, that magic must be removed from the line of Calenhad, or the Chantry will always come after Ferelden like it has with the Seekers, like it had with the march on Highever.”

The arl had finally crossed the line into treason. Though Meghan wished she could say she was surprised, she wasn’t. There had been enough hints and an easily noticed trend that indicated the ultimate result of Eamon’s opinions. “That could only be done by exiling or killing the current family,” Meghan said out loud, unable to keep the horror from her voice. Killing the current family, like had happened to her own family in Starkhaven, right down to the children, right down to babes in arms. 

“I know,” said Isolde. “His ideas are abhorrent. Immoral.” Her voice slipped into a whisper. “Treason.” She removed a kerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “This cannot be allowed to pass, and yet I cannot bring myself to speak up, to bring it to the attention of the authorities.” She pocketed the kerchief and met Meghan’s eyes again. “He is my husband. He is the father of my children, and I love him. To some extent, I even share his views about magic spoiling noble lines, but not to the point of eradicating those lines. Yet, what he has said is treason. How could I betray him in return? Then I ask myself how he could betray his country, how could he betray me, our children, with talk of treason? What am I to do?”

Meghan couldn’t let what happened to her own family happen again, not when she was in a place to prevent it. She felt for Isolde, who not only was left in a place where she would have to betray her husband, but also would take much of the blame, simply because she was Orlesian. “I could speak to someone, if you wish,” she said. “You need not betray him as he has you.”

“Thank you.” Isolde reached out and took Meghan’s hand. “You may not regard me as a friend, but you are the closest person I have to one.” She let go and stood up, putting on the brave face Meghan knew Isolde would have to carry to live through the tumult to come. “If you would excuse me, I have much to prepare for. Arrangements to make for my daughter, should the worst come to pass.” After a nod, Isolde took a deep breath, and stepped out of the room.

Meghan watched her go, wondering if that would be the last time she would see Isolde as a free woman.

**Leliana**

****It had not been Bann Ceorlic. Leliana watched him curiously as he left the interrogation room. Their suspicions had not been allayed when Ceorlic willingly submitted to questioning, instead of being literally dragged in like most members of the nobility. It turned out that Ceorlic the Younger rather liked the current monarchy, and aimed to keep them in place. “It’s about sodding time we had some stability,” he’d said to Cassandra. “There’s some who talk about the curse of magic in the line, what with Prince Cáel’s birth mother, but it’s just one woman, one little boy. There’s no magic in the King’s blood, and there’s no magic in the Queen’s, either, so their child will be free of it.”

He hadn’t known the origin of the rumors, but had agreed to try to find out and report back to the Seekers. Leliana knew Alistair and Anora would be pleased with the information, their permission for Cassandra to remain and conduct her investigation granted under the condition that all information gained would be shared with them. Cassandra had thus far complied, seeing no reason to engage in deceit, and recognizing that they had a large debt to pay to Ferelden for their failure to protect them.

Cassandra sighed after the door closed behind Ceorlic. “I truly thought it would be him.”

“He was the most obvious choice.”

“Now we must find another, and we haven’t even everyone to question, not any longer.” Cassandra turned to study Leliana. “They have not been seen for days.”

Leliana set aside the matter of Ceorlic to face her fellow Seeker. “Who?”

“The Prince and his Warden.”

It would make a fine title for a tale to be sung, Leliana thought. Were she the normal kind of bard, were she not a Seeker of a sort, she would have composed it herself. The thought would remain an untended seed, left to languish, never to flower in the garden it deserved. “They left with the Dalish clan who departed Denerim’s outskirts a few days ago.”

“Why did you not inform me?”

She shrugged. “I thought you knew. They had agreed to notify you if they planned to leave.”

“They did not.” Cassandra’s look told her that she didn’t believe Leliana believed Cassandra had known.

Leliana thought there was something to be said for loyalty, even when friends believed you dead, and would feel betrayed when they found out otherwise. Cassandra had her loyalty to the Seekers and the Chantry. Leliana wasn’t sure who or what her loyalties were any longer. Once, she’d been certain of the Maker and His plan, yet now after nearly three years, uncertainty remained. Recent events had not helped matters. A lyrium-mad Knight-Vigilant allowed to wield a harsh, unrealistic influence over too many templars and even some Seekers had created a serious problem within both Orders.

She believed they were too numerous to cull after how many they’d found had accompanied them to Ferelden. Their numbers would continue to grow, and Leliana feared that by the time Dorothea became the Divine, it would be too late for her balancing influence to matter.

Yet Dorothea insisted these things could not be rushed. The Maker had a plan, and she had to follow it through Andraste’s bidding. 

Leliana wasn’t so convinced. She was afraid.

“I have sent two trackers and a squad of templars after them,” said Cassandra.

“What for?”

“They have broken their word.”

For all of Cassandra’s commitment to the truth, she often obeyed the letter of the law instead of recognizing the spirit meant to be followed. While Leliana didn’t know why her friends had left Denerim, she assumed they had good reason. The best she could come up with was that they missed their child, and for that, they truly could not be blamed. “Perhaps they miss their son and wish to see him,” she said out loud.

“Then why not bring him here?” Cassandra asked, quite seriously.

Leliana quirked an eyebrow.

Cassandra’s scowl deepened. “Renaud and his ilk have done too much damage to even the Seekers’ reputation. We have promised not to harm them, we have promised our protection, and Renaud’s own broken word makes ours appear as false assurances.” Then she straightened. “I must meet with the King.”

 _Alistair_. “To what end?”

“He must know of his brother’s broken promise.”

“Did you not have more interviews today?” Last time Leliana had checked, there had been a full docket for Cassandra.

“Later, yes. First, the King. I must know what he knows. Depending on what I discover, I may attempt to recall my trackers—if, _if_ their departure is harmless in its intent, and their return is assured.”

“The King might not even know that his brother has left.”

Cassandra gave her another dubious look. “They are close enough to have no secrets between them. I would not believe for an instant that the King doesn’t know his brother is gone from the city.”

“He did keep his marriage secret for a number of months.” Leliana herself was still impressed at how long Malcolm seemed to have kept said secret from his elder brother. Malcolm had never been good at subterfuge.

“Yet it did come out, in the end. It was a forgone conclusion. The clandestine wedding of a royal could not remain secret for long.” As one of the Pentaghast heirs, Cassandra possessed solid knowledge of how such things worked in those circles. In addition, she was very much right. “He will still need to seek a dispensation, I believe. I am not sure he will be successful. Divine Beatrix would be less inclined to grant one than Divine Regula.”

“Perhaps.” Leliana had more hope of her own influence, and of Dorothea’s assisstance. “Perhaps not.”

“You will seek to aid your friends?”

“I owe them.”

Cassandra paused on her way to the door to look back at Leliana. “You are not the only one who carries the debt owed to the Fereldans. Do not try to take it all upon yourself.”

“We shall see.”

Realizing it would be the best answer she would get from her fellow Seeker, Cassandra left the room. After taking a moment to gather herself, Leliana left as well, taking care to lock the door behind her. While she understood what they owed to Ferelden was shared by both the Chantry and the Seekers, for them, the debt wasn’t personal. Even when the others managed to repay Ferelden, Leliana was certain her own debt wouldn’t be cleared. She hadn’t yet figured out a proper penance, much less begun to contemplate fulfilling it. 

The Maker would have to provide guidance. To that end, Leliana changed into her Chantry robes, taking on the persona of Sister Nightingale once more. Prayer and confession would do her good, perhaps provide inspiration on how to make it up to her friends for her failures.

When she entered the Chantry, Leliana quickly forgot her original purpose for the visit. Arlessa Isolde, head held high in a way that proved its want to look nowhere but at the floor, bustled right past her. Leliana barely managed to school the look of shock from her face, not just at Isolde’s uncharacteristic rush, but also because she’d seen unshed tears in Isolde’s eyes. 

What in the Maker’s name was going on?

It would require much listening to discern, and so Leliana took herself to the alcoves. Yet she’d barely entered the first when she was approached by a young woman she’d not thought to speak with again.

“Sister Nightingale?” Meghan Vael asked. 

Leliana nodded. “I am.”

“May I speak with you? In private, I mean. I’d like some guidance.”

“Of course.” Leliana took the younger woman by the shoulders and led her down the corridor to a sitting room instead of using an alcove. Alcoves only offered the illusion of privacy, which was why Leliana preferred them here in Ferelden. From an alcove, she could hear quite a lot. So when it came to her own private conversations, she made certain to find an actual room. 

She’d scarcely closed the door when Meghan launched into the issue that plagued her soul. “There’s a traitor in Ferelden,” she said. 

Leliana locked the door. “You know for certain?”

“Arlessa Isolde told me, so that I could possibly tell someone else for her. I think she knew that I couldn’t let a threat to wipe out another family pass by without trying to stop it. I don’t believe the treason has gotten to that point yet, but it’s rapidly approaching that sort of action. Isolde told me that Arl Eamon believes that magic must be removed from Ferelden’s royal line, and—”

“The Arlessa told you this of her own husband?”

“She shares in his sentiment, in part. The part about magic needing to not be in royal lines, but told me she doesn’t condone his growing extremism. I believe her, I think. I don’t know. She’s worried for her children.”

That gave Leliana pause. There were many things one could say about Arlessa Isolde, many of them less than favorable, but she did love her children, without question. Even if Isolde were complicit in whatever Eamon’s plans were, she would want to be sure her children would survive. 

Eamon. Leliana wouldn’t have suspected Eamon, not with how loyal he was to the Theirins. Despite Eamon’s ardent dislike of magic, stronger now, it seemed, than Isolde’s, he had always been among the staunchest defenders of the line of Calenhad. For him to plan its demise made no sense at all. “Did she have any other details?” Leliana asked. “Perhaps he was just venting frustration? I know frustration and anger have been running high amongst Fereldans as of late.”

Meghan shook her head sharply. “No, not just frustration. That wouldn’t make the arlessa concerned, not from what I witnessed as their household’s guest. This very well might be real, and I don’t know what to do.”

“You need not worry,” Leliana told her. “I know what to do. You have done enough just by coming to me. I will see to it that the Theirins are not betrayed.”

“What will happen to Isolde?” 

“You are royalty. You must already know.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would be different in Ferelden, though I don’t know if by different, I mean more brutal or more forgiving. I don’t know. I can’t see how plotting like this could result in anything less than death and attainder.” Meghan looked up at the ceiling as she sighed, and then returned to Leliana. “The children don’t deserve to be attainted, and yet it’s the punishment for treason. And Isolde, I don’t like how I don’t know of her involvement.”

“The Maker will watch over them. Perhaps Andraste will inspire mercy within the King, mercy for the children, at the very least.” Knowing what she did of Alistair’s troubled history with Isolde, Leliana didn’t see him granting her mercy. The children, however, she was positive would be saved. Alistair had never been one to allow children to suffer. 

The real question would be exactly what course of action Alistair would take with Eamon. Alistair tended to swing to extremes when it came to Eamon, either revering him as a father-figure, or reviling him for first sending him to the stables, and then to the Chantry. How he dealt with Eamon when he learned of his treason would depend on where the pendulum of his mood was when he faced the arl. There was honestly no telling.

First, Leliana wanted to gather more evidence. She wanted more than secondhand information. She needed to hear it from Eamon himself. Tomorrow, she decided, he would be brought before the Seekers, even if he needed to be physically brought in like his younger brother, Teagan, had. Teagan’s session with Cassandra had gone from poor to abysmal, with both Cassandra and Teagan leaving the interview completely furious. Teagan, Leliana had to explain to Cassandra later, was quite a good example of what stubborn, proud, determined, and forthright Fereldan nobles could be. It hadn’t much helped, which hadn’t been a bad thing. Cassandra’s meeting with Teagan had been for the purpose of gaining information about Malcolm and Alistair’s mothers. While Leliana was good at obfuscation, the less she needed to use, the better. She was glad that Eamon’s interview would now be going in an entirely direction, due to Meghan Vael’s information. Leliana only hoped that Eamon’s meeting with Cassandra would not follow the same lines. With such hostility, exchange of information became nearly impossible.

As it turned out, Arl Eamon did not have to be dragged in by some of the lower-ranking Seekers. He walked in willingly, not a hand on him from his Seeker escort, with an ease Leliana saw from where she hid in the shadows.

His willingness did not bode well for Ferelden, for Eamon carried a great deal of bitterness as of late.

He was the father of a young mage apprentice in Kinloch Hold, a mage who had once been his heir and was now merely his son. Once chancellor to King Alistair, but resigned not long after discovering his wife was again with child. Leliana, however, knew more than the cover that had been given as a reason. Eamon had had a falling out with the King and the Prince. Because she knew them personally from her time with them during the Blight, she was fairly certain over what the falling out had been: heirs. Legitimate heirs possessing not magic nor any additional elven blood. Cáel’s newly-granted legitimacy was exactly what Eamon would not have wanted, even if he’d voted otherwise in the Landsmeet. 

In addition to being in possession of a great deal of resentment, Eamon also had knowledge that only a select few outside the Wardens were privy to. Information that could harm the current monarchy, and destabilize an only recently stabilized Ferelden. 

Such a thing could not be allowed to happen.

Once Eamon was seated and the other Seekers had left the room, Cassandra regarded him for a long moment before introducing herself. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she said, as she did every time, “a Seeker of the Chantry.”

“I am aware,” Eamon said evenly. “What is it you want of me? Is this in regards to my brother? If it is, he is his own keeper, and the sole person responsible for his behavior. His actions do not reflect my own.”

Leliana hoped that sentiment went both ways, or Teagan would be caught up in this eventual mess of treason, too—a sad fate for such a lovely man.

“Your brother was and is a separate issue. It has nothing to do with you.”

Eamon nodded. “Good. What do you want from me?”

“Tell me,” said Cassandra, ignoring Eamon’s prompt, “what are your feelings on magic?”

“I have a son who is a mage.”

“Do not play games. Your answer tells me nothing of your feelings.”

For a moment, the arl seemed taken aback at Cassandra’s hard line, but then he gave her a curt nod. “It needs to be controlled, for it is dangerous. It threatens the population of non-mages with how easily a demon can slip into the mind and body of a mage. It is a curse on bloodlines that seem to easily produce mages.”

“Does this include your own line?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe Connor was an aberration, and Rowan will not have magic. It remains to be seen. If my line turns out twice cursed, there’s the hope that Teagan’s line, whenever he has children, will not be similarly sullied.”

Cassandra nodded, and then stood up to pace a little. “You are a Theirin loyalist, are you not?”

“I believe I can be described as such, yes.”

“Yet, you are aware that Prince Malcolm’s mother was a mage?”

Eamon’s look darkened, Cassandra’s seemingly innocent question having scratched the gilded veneer of his pleasantness. “I am.”

Cassandra paused and looked back at him. “You sound unhappy.”

“What Fereldan who knows what I know would not be? Magic is a danger to a line, especially a royal line, and Calenhad’s has been cursed with it.”

“While I understand that Malcolm’s son is now heir-presumptive, the Queen is expecting an heir-apparent, is she not? This would mean the primary line that will inherit the throne will not carry magic, only the secondary line. Your concern is little warranted.”

Eamon snorted in derision. “So you think. The two of them share the same mother. Magic is in all remaining branches of the line. While my colleagues of the Bannorn believe their royal line free of magic, they hold this belief in ignorance of the facts. Alistair carries just as much magic in his blood as Malcolm. If Ferelden wants a Theirin to remain on the throne, we will have to suffer the curse of magic running through its royal family’s blood, for there are no other known direct Theirin heirs.”

“You sound very certain of presence of magic in both the King and his brother. Are you as certain as you sound?”

“Of the magic? Yes. They share the same mother—a mage.”

Leliana stared at Eamon through the darkness shrouding her, astonished at the information he’d given away, and the additional information he’d nearly given away. There was no way he did not know what he had said, not when he’d repeated it, as if to make sure Cassandra understood. No man as politically savvy as he would be so careless. Panic began to rise in her throat. She could do nothing to stop Eamon if he revealed everything while sitting in this chamber, not without exposing herself too soon, either to Dorothea that she knew the truth of Alistair and Malcolm’s parentage, or to her Fereldan friends, the truth of her being alive.

“What else do you know?” asked Cassandra, who wasn’t able to keep from sounding a tiny bit eager.

Eamon noticed, and drew his head back, as if he attempting to retreat from the line he’d crossed before the interview had even begun. “All I know for certain is that she is dead.”

Leliana had heard of Fiona’s passing, though it had taken some weeks for the news to reach her. On receiving it, she’d mourned for Alistair’s loss, his last chance at having a parent of some kind there for him so brutally jerked from his grasp by the darkspawn taint. She had also feared that Alistair or Malcolm would react too outwardly to Fiona’s death, and that others would have begun to question their connection to her. The fear had proven unwarranted. 

Her other fear, the one where she dreaded what Arl Eamon would do with his information, burned brightly. His determined look on Cassandra told her that for now, the knowledge would be safe, at least from the Seekers. It seemed revealing the entire truth of Fiona was still too personal a line for Eamon to fully cross, though his previous thoughts and actions had already entered into the realm of treason.

Cassandra recognized the stall, as well, and kept her silence as she picked her next direction. Interviewing was as much art as it was the asking of finely honed questions, and sometimes the judicial application of blunt threats. Pick the wrong tactic, and the interview would meet an unproductive end at a stone wall. Pick the right one, and all sorts of paths would open up. Fereldans, as the Seekers had learned over the past weeks, were the most difficult subjects ever put to question in recent memory. 

“You say you have no other choice of Theirin heirs,” Cassandra said, “but that is not true. The Drydens are relations to the Theirin line. If they were not, Sophia Dryden would not have been a claimant to the throne with the future King Arland.”

“The Drydens?” A harsh, dry laugh came from Eamon’s throat. “The Drydens have long since ceased being Theirins. They stopped claiming the blood of Calenhad when they took the name Dryden, throwing away the Theirin. In the two hundred years since then, while they’ve lived in Antiva, their Fereldan roots have thinned so much as to be nonexistent. Meanwhile, in Ferelden, their family is synonymous with treason. They would never be accepted. The Landsmeet would sooner allow an elf-blooded mage-child as their monarch over a Dryden. You grasp at straws, Seeker. There are no other options than the more immediate and direct Theirins left to us, magic in their line or no.”

“Your Landsmeet chooses its King or Queen. It is only custom that a Theirin is chosen. It it not so out of the question that another family could be picked. Teyrn Bryce Cousland was offered the kingship over Maric’s son Cailan.”

“And he turned it down, because the Couslands are loyal to the Theirins, just as the Guerrins are.” Eamon’s tone bordered on a shout. “No other line should take the throne, and I will do everything in my power to keep the Theirins from being unseated. I cannot and will not betray the only heirs of Calenhad left to Ferelden, so do not think to lead me along the path to treason.” His eyes dropped to study his hands that had clenched into fists in his lap.

If the movement would not have given her position in the shadows away, Leliana would have shaken her head. The arl already _had_ , whether he chose to believe it or not. It was almost pitiable that he held onto the illusion that he had not.

“And if there was another?” asked Cassandra.

“Would that there were.” Eamon looked up at the Seeker. “Have you one in your pocket, or is this about more distant relatives that no longer even live in Ferelden?”

Cassandra crossed her arms, her look becoming thoughtful as she pointedly ignored Eamon’s hostility. “Many of Orlais’ bards have kept company with Ferelden’s kings, both here and abroad.” She paced lightly to and fro in front of the wooden chair in each Eamon sat. “It is not beyond the realm of possibility that there could have been issue from such unions, perhaps far more recently than you assume.”

“It had crossed my mind. My nephew, Cailan, had visited Orlais a few times without Anora. If any bards had been attending court then—and I cannot reason how an Orlesian court could be absent of bards—one may have slept with him. Perhaps even on Celene’s command, to get with a bastard of his. If not him, then perhaps before, when other Theirins visited Orlais, or bards visited Ferelden, like that Maker-damned Katriel.”

Cassandra halted and spun on her heel in order to lean down to Eamon. “I know of at least one Theirin bastard of Orlesian extraction. Help me, and I will see to it that you are able to find them.” She straightened and waited.

For a long, agonizing moment, Eamon said nothing. He was not jumping at the chance, as they had assumed he would, but neither did he turn it aside. Finally, he said, “I want proof. Show me the child, or you will find me no more cooperative than you found my brother.”

“Who said anything about a child?” Cassandra asked. “It could be a child. It could be an adult. All you need know is that they exist. I cannot help you if you do not help me.”

“I gave you the information about Alistair and Malcolm sharing a mother. If you want anything more from me, I will need a gesture of good faith.” Eamon crossed his own arms and sat back in his chair, the first time he had done so during the entire interview. His line had been reached, and if the Seekers wanted to see what lay beyond, they would have to play his game.

“Very well.” Cassandra directed a short nod at Eamon. “A meeting shall be arranged. Once the proof has met with your satisfaction, you will unravel the rest of the mystery for us, thread by thread.”

As he walked out, Eamon seemed older, older than when he entered the room, and much older than after he’d woken from his long illness during the Blight. Leliana wasn’t sure if she imagined that he stumbled a little as he walked through the doorway, but it looked like he had, with the Seekers escorting him closing ranks just enough to hold him up. No matter. Her decision was made as Eamon had made his—she would warn Alistair. Eamon was a traitor. He was a danger to someone she had held quite dear. 

Perhaps, once, she might have called it love.


	62. Chapter 62

“And when the darkness passed, a rowan grove, every tree bearing the frozen face of a terrified elf, stood where the camp had been. From then on, it was forbidden in every clan to cut living trees in the Brecilian Forest. The spirits know nothing of forgiveness.”

—excerpt from _The Rowan Grove: A Dalish Tale_ from _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Líadan**

****The halla bleated in nervousness as soon as they entered the valley at the base of Sundermount. Their unease carried to the rest of the party like the light mist that wove between them, Dalish and human alike. Wariness prickled through their skin, and they began to scan around them, through the gauze of the mist, for possible threats. Even Cáel was drawn in, his innocent eyes searching as much as the adults’ were, though Líadan hoped her son hadn’t yet developed the concept of what they looked for. He was too young to have to know the sort of fear instilled by malevolent spirits from the Beyond.

When they reached the Mahariel camp in the heart of the valley, matters didn’t improve. No Fen’Harel stood looking outward as warning, and the rest of the Creators were equally as absent. No hunters stood at the entrance of the camp as guards. The two aravels the small party had taken from the main Suriel camp a few miles away passed through without challenge. The only difficulty stemmed from the growing reticence of the halla to remain in the shadow of Sundermount. They compromised by stopping at the periphery of the camp, signaling where they would have the aravels, because they would go no farther. Like mabari, halla were often smarter than their elven companions. Líadan wasn’t reassured when Revas insisted on staying with the halla. Granted, she’d have stayed back with them, except she had obligations.

There was also the matter of the entire clan being engaged in a shouting match.

They had gathered around the large central firepit right next to the Keeper’s aravel. Keeper Marethari stood outside, her back pressed against the wooden planks smoothed by years of exposure to the elements. Líadan had never seen the clan act like this. Certainly, she had witnessed various clan members vent their frustrations with decisions Marethari had made, like Líadan had done so herself on many occasions. However, an entire clan uniting for such a thing was unheard of, which did nothing to alleviate her unease.

Minutes passed, which amounted to an eternity with unchecked strangers within the camp, before a single person noticed them. Had the entire situation not been so surreal, Líadan would have laughed that the most observant hunter turned out to be Cammen. Meanwhile, the lead hunter, Fenarel, was too busy shouting at the Keeper to notice anything else.

“Clan’s in a bit of an uproar,” Cammen said after he smiled in greeting and moved to stand next to Líadan.

“Oh, so this isn’t normal,” said Malcolm.

Emrys broke long enough from his own intense observation to glare at Malcolm. Then he said, “There is something wrong here.” Líadan wasn’t sure if the other Dalish noticed, but she’d heard a strained note in Emrys’ tone. Something had him agitated, and it wasn’t Malcolm, though he was unfortunately getting the brunt of it.

“Which is what I’ve been telling you,” said Líadan. She earned an exasperated look from Emrys, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t like she hadn’t repeatedly tried to explain to the other Dalish just how strange the Mahariel clan’s behavior had become.

After it became clear that Emrys had no intention of addressing Líadan’s point, Cammen let out a polite cough. “Merrill and the humans who came with her killed a varterral.” As Emrys rounded to fix a furious look on the young hunter, Cammen quickly added, “At the Keeper’s request!” Then he took a step away from Emrys. No one, Líadan thought, could blame him. Emrys was rather menacing when he let his temper show.

“I’ll put good coin that my sister’s involved with this, somehow,” Bethany said quietly to Kennard.

He grunted in amusement. “I’ll not be taking that bet. I’ve heard about your sister.”

Emrys either didn’t catch the byplay, or didn’t care, and kept up with his questioning of Cammen. “What would compel a Keeper to request such a thing?”

Cammen shuffled away a little more. “It had killed three of our hunters. We found their bodies up on the mountain.”

Emrys stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Cammen once again. “So she didn’t even know beforehand?”

“I suppose not, no.”

“Yet the decision to slay it was already made.” 

“It looks—yes.”

“For what ridiculous reason would a Keeper send her former First, with shemlen—”

“Humans,” Malcolm grumbled under his breath. “Use humans.”

Emrys acknowledged the comment, but in his own way. “With _shemlen_ , to kill a creature made by the Creators for the express purpose of protecting the People?”

Cammen shot a nervous look at Marethari, who was still embroiled in the clan’s confrontation. Left without guidance, he hesitated before answering, “Merrill invoked _vir sulevanan._ ”

“As is the right of any Dalish,” said Emrys. “Why would Keeper Marethari choose to subvert it by picking such an impossible task?”

He fired another pleading look toward Keeper Marethari, but Cammen was left to his own devices. “The Keeper didn’t want Merrill to have the _arulin’holm_.”

Emrys crowded Cammen, and then seemed to realize the hunter wasn’t at fault; Cammen was merely unlucky enough to be the unwitting messenger. However, the realization did nothing to soften Emrys’ tone. “No matter what the motivation, it is not reasonable to deny one of the People their right to their history. And it is _never_ justifiable to give our history to a shemlen. Never.” Emrys spun to face the crowd still gathered in the center of the camp, and then stalked toward Marethari.

The clan parted for the older Keeper, each of them falling silent as Emrys passed.

“ _Aneth ara_ , Keeper Emrys,” Marethari said calmly, as if she had not just been yelled at by an entire clan moments ago. Her greeting was a departure from her normal, more formal one, Líadan noticed. The greeting Marethari had offered was one given between old friends, and not so often exchanged between Keepers. However, once the first Keeper chose between casual and formal, the other Keeper generally went with it.

Emrys did not. “ _Andaran atish’an_ , Keeper Marethari,” he replied. He was not so collected as Marethari. Where she should have appeared rattled, through his insistence on formality, Emrys did instead.

From where Líadan and the others stood, they couldn’t hear the first exchange of words after their initial greetings. Quickly, however, voices became raised enough to carry through the encampment and beyond. Líadan honestly couldn’t recall her grandfather ever being this visibly angry, even after the templars had killed her mother—his daughter.

Bethany scrunched her brows together as she watched the proceedings. After a moment, she asked, “Why does this feel like Mother and Father are fighting?”

“Scale this up about ten times, throw in at least twenty Keepers, and you’ve got the _Arlathvhen_ ,” said Ariane.

“And I thought the Landsmeet was bad,” said Malcolm.

“My guess? Fereldans learned that from elves.” 

Given that the only rivals the Dalish had when it came to hard-headedness were Fereldans, Líadan figured Ariane’s supposition wasn’t too far from the truth. Next to her, Nuala put the squirming Cáel down on the grass, whereupon the boy immediately crawled to her leg and expertly pulled himself to standing. Creators, but he picked up new skills quickly.

“You want to see what’s going on?” Malcolm turned and asked. Cáel grinned and lunged for him. The boy hadn’t quite mastered taking actual steps, but his standing had grown steadily better, and he was getting the concept of heading in the direction he wanted. His problem was that he flung himself rather than took steps, but it was a work in progress. Malcolm caught him and settled Cáel on his shoulders so he could watch the goings-on. Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, what’s an _arulin’holm_ , and why’s it got everyone up in arms?”

“An ancient tool for carving ironwood,” said Oisín. “The uproar isn’t over the _arulin’holm_. It’s because, like Emrys said, Marethari gave it to a human. It’s the fact that she handed one of our ancient artifacts over to someone not of the People.”

“I can see why that’d piss everyone off,” Malcolm said. “I mean, I stole Líadan, and she isn’t _nearly_ as old.”

Líadan smacked him on the arm. “This is serious. I know you aren’t Dalish—”

“I know it’s serious. I don’t have to be Dalish to see and partly understand that much. What do I do when things get serious? I make jokes. You do it sometimes, too. Not right now, though. Maker, what is it about this place?”

Oisín’s look darkened. “It’s the thin Veil. The influence of the Beyond does strange things to the mind.”

Then Emrys paused long enough in his arguing to motion for Oisín to join him. After trading a concerned look with Ariane, he did as asked. Yet even when Oisín reached the two Keepers, the arguing did not stop.

“Is it always this terribly awkward?” asked Nuala. 

“Sort of,” said Malcolm. “I mean, it’s awkward for outsiders, especially humans, but last time we were here, I never saw them fight like this.”

“They’ve never fought like this,” Líadan said quietly. The unease that had started with the hallas’ reaction to the valley churned in her stomach, worsening as the confrontation showed no sights of halting.

Malcolm frowned up at the looming mountain. “I don’t understand why they aren’t leaving. I’m not Dalish, I’m not a mage, and even _I_ know staying here for as long as they have is stupid and dangerous.”

“I wish they would.” Líadan wondered if the Mahariel would reach a point where she wouldn’t recognize any of them.

“Hahren Paivel and Master Ilen have had more than a few arguments with Keeper Marethari over leaving,” said Cammen. “Like you, they don’t understand. None of us do, but she’s the Keeper. She’s our leader. So there must be a purpose for the clan to stay as we have.”

“A purpose, maybe,” said Líadan, “but I’m not sure if the purpose is good for the clan.”

“We trust her. We have to trust her. She’s the Keeper.” 

Cammen’s words were a fine example of why Líadan did not want to be a First or a Keeper, nor did she ever want to be one. So much trust went into Keepers, so much responsibility, for them to be caretakers of not only the clan as a whole and every person in it, but Dalish history, as well. Good intentions could end in bad results, as evidenced by the argument going on in front of them. 

They heard Marethari extend an invitation to Emrys and Oisín to continue their discussion in her aravel, and they reluctantly agreed. Deprived of the spectacle of two Keepers arguing in front of an entire clan, the Mahariel dispersed to their duties or their own aravels.

Líadan scowled and swung to face Cammen. “Tell me what happened.”

Cammen glanced down at her middle, and then expectantly at her. “You tell me first.”

As she gaped at Cammen’s courage, Malcolm sighed. “Well, since apparently no one in your clan told you, when a mother and a father love each other very much, Ghilan’nain sends a halla—”

“I know where babies come from!” Cammen practically shouted. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I think he does. I want to know if he knows the whole Dalish version of it,” said Ariane.

Malcolm grinned. “I do. Now, the halla—”

Cammen held up his hands. “Stop! Stop it. I really do know where babies come from, and it’s not from Ghilan’nain, or halla, or anything like that.”

“Well, good thing you know, considering you’re married,” Malcolm told him, looking no less amused.

“And were you bonded before... before that?” Cammen pointed at Líadan’s belly.

Malcolm had the good grace to blush. Líadan merely wanted to die from embarrassment at being called out by _Cammen_. The only thing that made her feel better about it was that it hadn’t been Fenarel. Neither Malcolm nor Líadan actually answered Cammen’s question.

Ariane gladly supplied it for them. “Nope. They weren’t.”

“We’ll have words, you and I,” Cammen said to Malcolm. The young hunter would have looked convincingly threatening, if they hadn’t known him beforehand.

Malcolm pulled a face. “Aw, and here I thought we were friends.”

“Well, we were.” Cammen frowned. “Before you did _that_ to my clanmate without even bothering to bond with her first.” His brow furrowed as he began to think critically, and then he turned to Líadan again. “How far along are you? Because you look pretty far. If I count right, you could’ve—did that happen _here_? When you... with the patrol overhearing, so that... here? Really?”

“You know what? How about you tell me why the clan is completely messed up, and then maybe I’ll give you some answers about my situation afterward,” Líadan said, taking Cammen by the shoulders to redirect him. 

After he took a breath to settle himself, Cammen nodded. “It went like I said. Everything was pretty much fine until Merrill showed up here with her human friends this morning. She wanted the _arulin’holm_ , invoked _vir sulevanan_ to get it, and so the Keeper sent them up to kill the varterral. Everything went wrong after that. Fenarel sent me up with them, claiming I had experience in those caves.” He gave the group a sly smile. “Mostly, I think he knows I’m the only one with any tolerance for working with humans. It didn’t bother me to go. I’d missed Merrill, and I wanted to know what sort of people she’d ended up with.”

“And?” asked Líadan. Then she glanced back at Bethany before she said more to Cammen. “Be careful how you answer, because I think Bethany’s sister was with Merrill.”

He excitedly pointed at Bethany. “That’s why you look so familiar! Your eyes are different colors, but your faces are so much alike, otherwise! The human woman with Merrill, she went by the name Hawke, though the healer and the Chantry guy with them kept calling her Marian.”

Bethany sighed. “And that would be my sister, right at the bottom of this whole mess. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Your sister meant well. Besides, she stuck up for Merrill like a clanmate would.”

“Wait,” said Líadan. “Wait. Back up a bit and explain what happened in a less disjointed manner, because I’m not following. So, you went up Sundermount with Merrill and some humans, in order to kill a varterral. Then what happened?”

“There was a dwarf, too. Victor? Vaska? I can’t remember. Nice guy, though. Told great stories, kept us distracted from creepy stuff the whole way up.” Cammen noticed Líadan’s glare on him and found his way back to the original topic before she had to say anything. “Right, so up we went. Four hunters had gone up before us yesterday and never returned. We found the bodies of the first three, and then came across Pol. He’d gone with the others to try to get his first pelt. I guess a varterral counts?” Cammen shrugged. “I don’t know. But we found him, alive, and he just... he ran. He was convinced Merrill would hurt him.”

Líadan narrowed her eyes. “And exactly how would any of the Mahariel arrive at that sort of fear?”

“The Keeper told them. Merrill’s work as a blood mage to fix that mirror was a symbol of the mirror’s corruption. Then she said Merrill could bring the corruption—or worse—from the mirror back to the clan, and that it was her duty to warn us. Many took it to heart. Pol, especially, since he’d been a city elf before he found us. He fears blood magic far more deeply than any Dalish ever could. So, he ran. He ran right into the varterral and it didn’t end well. It crushed him, and then rest of us had to fight it.”

As Cammen described the battle that had followed Pol’s death, Líadan fought the surge of anger at her former Keeper for betraying Merrill as she had. Merrill had left her birth clan to serve as a First for the Mahariel. She’d left her parents, her blood kin, and the closest thing left she had to family had been Marethari. _Was_ Marethari. Now, not only had Merrill been exiled, but her former clan feared her enough to prefer facing an angry varterral over her. It made no sense.

“So, after we dealt with the varterral, Merrill found Pol’s body. She was pretty upset. Even started crying. Kept asking why Pol had run. The healer they’d brought with them suddenly went from being nice to being, well, an ass. He kept making comments whenever she’d wonder out loud about Pol. Hinting at demons and death and blood magic and monsters. After a third comment, Hawke hauled off and punched him in the jaw. That shut him up, but I don’t think it made Merrill feel any better. Oh, and I think the healer was the same one who came with you guys, before. Anders, I think? He was nicer back then, though. He’s different than he used to be.”

From across the clearing, Gheyna shouted and drew Cammen’s attention. He winced and looked back at the others. “I need to go. I’ll be back later.” He took off without waiting for replies.

Líadan cast an angry look at Marethari’s aravel, and wished Emrys and Oisín would leave so she could have her chance to talk to the Keeper. 

“Glaring won’t do you any good.” Malcolm handed off Cáel to Nuala, as the boy had started indicating that he was hungry. Once Cáel was safely passed, Malcolm started for Líadan. Then he drew up short. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed a new spell that lets you set things on fire just by looking at them all mean-like.”

“No, I haven’t. I just...” She lost the hold she’d gotten on her feelings, and fell silent.

“You want to save them from themselves,” Malcolm finished for her, the teasing tone having disappeared. “It’s an impossible task.”

Her stomach twisted, and she knew he was right.

“Come on.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s set up some sort of camp and do our best to pretend everything isn’t all weird around here.”

“I’ve half a mind to go to Kirkwall and get an explanation from Marian,” said Bethany.

“Soon enough,” said Malcolm.

Cammen didn’t return until the evening meal had been eaten and Cáel put down for bed. He looked no less uneasy than he had before. Truthfully, none of them did, not with the extended argument poorly disguised as a conference still taking place in Marethari’s aravel. They had all attempted to lighten the mood with jokes or stories during the long wait for news, but nothing had worked. Sundermount loomed too heavily, and the Mahariel camp around them seemed too off. 

“Sorry,” Cammen said as he dropped onto the grass next to the fire. Then he reached into his pouch and took out a piece of green, leathery hide. He shifted it from hand to hand, treating it like a worry stone as he gazed at the fire.

“That’s a piece of the varterral, isn’t it?” asked Malcolm. “Oh, it is. Maker, what’s wrong with you? Your first pelt from a gargantuan spider, and now you think you have to take trophies from mythical creatures?”

“Had to top the spider.”

“Good point. Still, a bit gross. Also creepy.”

“It’s creepy here in the first place.” Cammen cast a wary look up at the dark summit of Sundermount. “The clan is changing, or has changed. Or something. First it was the halla, then we came here and never left, and the Keeper never even listens when the issue of migrating is brought up, and then Merrill was exiled, and now people are starting to... they aren’t themselves. It isn’t everyone, and it isn’t all the time, but I’ve started to notice. I’m worried. Normally, I’d speak to the First, but, well. Exiled, and now feared, so... I don’t know.”

“My bondmate, Oisín, is supposed to become the Mahariel’s First. The _Arlathvhen_ sent him,” said Ariane. “He can help.”

Cammen shook his head. “The only thing that can help us now is to leave this cursed place, and the Keeper won’t hear of it. Staying here, it’s like watching your doom slowly consume you, bit by bit.”

“So, you leave,” said Kennard. “Don’t bloody stand there and let that mountain eat you.”

“You don’t understand.” Cammen gave him a sharp look. “I can’t just leave. This is my clan.”

“You said yourself, they aren’t the same. I heard earlier you’ve got a wife, right? Maybe one day you want kids? Well, if you do, this isn’t the place to raise them. I’ve not a magical bone in my body, and this place has my skin crawling. Leave. I’m not telling you to leave the Dalish. Just this clan. Maybe you can join up with the clan we traveled with, or find a different clan from them. But you’d be safe and alive and not here.” Kennard sat back and held a steady gaze on Cammen. “And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, because you have. It’s like you’re waiting for someone you believe an authority to tell you that it’s okay.”

“I want it to be the Keeper,” said Cammen, his eyes on Marethari’s aravel, and his voice having the wispy quality of one who’s lost hope. “It’s supposed to be the Keeper.” Back and forth, the hide went between his hands, and nothing changed.

Twilight had nearly arrived by the time Emrys exited Marethari’s aravel, and he looked no less perturbed than before he’d entered it. He came stalking back to the smaller camp, and a confused and shocked-looking Oisín followed close behind. Those who’d been waiting at the firepit stood when they saw them approaching. 

As Emrys strode past Cammen, he took note of the hide and said off-handedly, “You would be wise not to be in possession of that piece of the varterral when it re-forms itself, as it always does. They are immortal. They can only be delayed, not stopped.”

Cammen quickly flung the piece of hide into the trees nearby.

Oisín began speaking in low tones with Ariane, while Emrys stopped at the first of their two aravels. 

“She declined the halla,” Emrys said as he paced a line in front of the aravel. “Declined Oisín as a First. There is a sickness in them I cannot identify. I was even told that new information gathered about the clan’s lineage has her contemplating a name change. The Mahariel might become the Sabrae, and for the life of me, I don’t know _why_. Clans do not change their names. It is not done. Clan names go back to the Houses of Arlathan. Keeping the names means keeping them alive. There is an illness, and though I can feel it, I cannot see its source.”

“What do you mean?” asked Líadan. Though she often found her grandfather’s motives suspect as of late, as he ranted in front of her, clearly incensed, she saw what made him a good Keeper. He truly did care, even if sometimes he cared a little too much for tradition, and not enough for the person compelled to live by it.

“They’ve changed. They are the People, and they are not. They cannot see the change in themselves, not even Marethari. She is supposed to be their guardian, and yet she keeps them here. She turns away halla, turns from Ghilan’nain.” He used his staff to point around them, the fire reflecting off its smooth, shined wood. “I’ve not seen a single statue of the Creators. I’ve not seen the warning and reminder of the Dread Wolf.”

“There’s an altar to Mythal on one of the Sundermount paths,” she said. “I found it a curious choice when the other Creators have gone neglected.”

Emrys nodded. “She is balanced by the other Creators, just as she helps balance them. To worship one but not consider the others...” He roughly shook his head. “I do not know. It did not end well for one such people, long ago, even though the Creator they chose was the god of peace.” He glared at the mountain, and then studied the Mahariel camp. “I will find out what is going on. It is my duty as a Keeper, and I will not see my people abandoned.” He turned to Oisín and Ariane. “This means we will stay here in the valley for the time being, but as far from Sundermount as possible.” Then he inclined his head to Oisín. “Come, we have work to do. Whatever has poisoned the Mahariel must not do the same to us, and so we must protect ourselves.”

After the Keeper and Oisín had walked to what they’d decided would be the perimeter of their smaller camp of just two aravels and a few tents, Ariane looked over at Líadan. “So, in all that talking with Marethari, Oisín told me she mentioned to Emrys that she still wishes you to be her First. She did acknowledge that it could not be for some time.”

“She’s delusional,” said Líadan. 

“I would say more hopeful than most.” When Líadan gave her a dubious look, Ariane changed her mind. “All right, yes. Delusional. You haven’t the patience to be a Keeper, no matter what the strength of your magic.”

Líadan felt her lips quirk in a smile, but it faded almost instantly. Her gaze drifted to Marethari’s aravel, where the Keeper had shut herself inside. “I think I need to speak with her.”

“You don’t have to prove your lack of patience,” said Malcolm. “Besides, hitting your head repeatedly against a stone wall might be less painful. Might even get you further than it would trying to talk sense into Keeper Marethari.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Who said anything about talking sense into her? I just want to have a chat.”

He raised both his eyebrows in return. “Somehow, I don’t think you mean catching up with an old mentor sort of chat. Well, unless your version of catching up means lots of yelling.” He tilted his head. “You know, come to think of it, I believe it does.”

Ariane did nothing to hide her laugh, and neither did Bethany or Cammen.

“Not helping,” Líadan said to the three of them before fixing Malcolm with a dark glare. “I don’t plan on yelling, shouting, or even raising my voice.” Mostly because none of those things were ever effective with Marethari. She’d yet to figure out just what worked with the Keeper, because nothing she’d yet tried ever had.

“And I never plan on putting my foot in my mouth, but it often turns out I do.”

“Keep it up.”

“And what?”

“I’ll...” Her hands clenched at her sides as she tried to subdue her anger. “I’ll think of something. I’m too frustrated with other people to figure out how to get even with you in the state I’m in.”

“Really?” He grinned and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll have to remember that.”

She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m keeping track. You’ll get yours.”

“I bet he will,” Nuala said to Ariane.

Líadan threw her hands in the air and walked away, heading for Marethari’s aravel. She had to make sense of what she’d witnessed in the camp, and the rumors she’d heard from others. The circumstances of her unborn daughter’s conception were also not far from her mind, and certainly not after Cammen had guessed at when it had been. Their last visit here played over and over in her mind, Anders’ strangeness after they’d left, Fenarel’s pushiness during the whole visit, and Marethari being even more vexing than usual with her vague riddles. 

Marethari opened the door to her aravel just as Líadan raised her fist to rap on it. The Keeper’s smile seemed genuinely warm, if not overly broad. “I had thought you might visit, _da’len_ ,” she said, and then fully opened the door and stepped aside. “You’ll find a mug of tea waiting for you.”

The nostalgic scent of Dalish tea tickled at her nose as soon as she stepped into the aravel, evoking strong memories of her last visit inside a Keeper’s aravel. The memories were so vivid that she had to blink several times to prevent the return of the turmoil she’d felt while Lanaya had spoken to her. The young Keeper’s words had been as much comfort as possible after a day and night where so much had irrevocably changed. Some had admittedly been for the better—she would never change her decision to bond with Malcolm. Other revelations, she still wasn’t certain about, though she suspected she’d find certainty soon enough. She couldn’t possibly remain reticent about her feelings for her child after her daughter was born, could she? Once, it would have been a question she’d have asked Keeper Marethari, but not any longer.

Líadan sat down at the Keeper’s table, batting away other memories of the last time she’d been in this very place. Marethari had first told her of Merrill’s exile, only to follow up with Fenarel’s sudden interest in Líadan as a bondmate. Back then, Líadan had thought she’d known what upheaval was, but she knew now that it had been nothing, not compared to what she’d faced recently.

“I admit,” Marethari said as she sat down with her own mug of tea, “I had not suspected you would be in your grandfather’s company when you chose to visit.”

“Neither had I.” Líadan plied her thumb along the mug’s handle as she waited for her tea to cool. So much had happened the last time she’d been among the Mahariel. Not least among them had been her conversations with Marethari, both in what had been said, and what had not. Something about those non-conversations tickled at her memory as the scent of Dalish tea had, and she struggled to bring it to the surface.

“You look well.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow, though she’d not heard a hint of irony in the Keeper’s pronouncement. “Emrys would not say the same. Nor did he. I’m sure you can guess as to why.” Just in case Marethari had lost her vision as much as she seemed to be losing her mind, Líadan glanced down at where her lap would have been if not for the child swelling her belly.

The Keeper acknowledged the gesture with a small, warm smile. “Your grandfather believes he knows more than he truly does. He was not present when the life within you took root. He is not aware of the force that nudged it into being. Were he to know, he would not act as he does.”

“What does that even mean?” Líadan asked, barely containing her urge to shout. Then she held up her free hand, telling Marethari to keep quiet. “Wait, no. I think I—wait.” Her eyes dropped to look at her middle as the implications of the Keeper’s words became clear. Then her need to shout disappeared, and her voice fell to a deadly level of quiet. “You had something to do with this.”

Marethari set her mug aside, and then folded her hands primly on the wooden table. “We all have our debts that must be paid when they are called in to _Asha’belannar_.”

The revelation did nothing for the guilt. It did nothing for anything except to make it worse. To think, the woman sitting in front of her was someone she had trusted implicitly, as far back as she could remember. Now, she didn’t know who Marethari was.

What had the Keeper done? She went over the conversations again, over her actions again, over Marethari’s words and deeds the last time Líadan had visited the Mahariel. But there wasn’t much narrowing down to do—she’d only slept with Malcolm once during their entire stay with the clan. Just the once, after Líadan had spoken with Marethari in a situation very much like this, quiet, barbed words exchanged over Dalish tea.

Something in the tea.

Líadan stood and shoved the mug in front of her roughly away, sending it across the table, the hot liquid splashing out onto the tabletop. 

“There was nothing in there but tea,” said Marethari, her tone of voice still infuriatingly calm.

“And the last time?” Líadan refused to sit back down, caught between the urge to flee and the urge to confront.

“You will have to ask _Asha’belannar_.”

Líadan couldn’t. She couldn’t comprehend the turn of events, couldn’t understand what her former Keeper had done and why, couldn’t comprehend anything to do with Flemeth, couldn’t with any of this, because it had already been too complicated _before_. 

Marethari continued the same as she had been, even faced with Líadan’s look of betrayal. “She did tell me that you would not be harmed through anything to do with her. I believe she is fond of you, as fond as _Asha’belannar_ is of anyone.”

Considering what Líadan had witnessed of Flemeth and her fractious relationship with her own daughter, Morrigan, Líadan wasn’t reassured. “You’re telling me this was her idea? Her doing?”

“I do not know. As is her way, she did not explain much beyond calling in a debt. She did inform me that it would aid in rendering an outcome that would otherwise face slim to impossible odds, and then assured me that none of my clan would come to harm by her hands.”

“No harm? Maybe the two of you have different definitions of harm than I do, but this—” Líadan angrily gestured to her middle “—was harm. _Is_ harm, because everything is not as it should be and you helped. You helped! She’s going to be _human_ not _Dalish_ and even my own grandfather can’t stand the idea. He barely tolerates me, and his clan despises me! The majority of the People will never welcome me back after this. Never. And just what if it hadn’t worked? What if Malcolm and I hadn’t...” Líadan trailed off as she realized that wasn’t the most important question, not any longer. Her outrage remained, but her volume lessened to a whisper as she spoke of a fear she’d barely come to know. “Could she still die? Could I?”

“ _Da’len_ , even _Asha’belannar_ cannot control all. She merely gave fate a push.”

“With your assistance.”

“When you owe a debt of your own, you will understand my choice.”

No, she couldn’t. She would never. Neither would Emrys. Faced with the idea that her former Keeper had never quite had Líadan’s best interest at heart, or even the clan’s or the People’s, that Marethari would help _do this to her_ , to put her through this anguish over bearing a human’s child when it could have been prevented, Líadan wanted to run to her grandfather. The quintessential Keeper, he would never put anything ahead of his clan, even _Asha’belannar_.

As far as she knew, and she now knew that her knowledge did not go terribly far. There had been Emrys’ slight change of heart when he’d learned of Cáel’s biological heritage. Then again, it could have been the natural Dalish respect for _Asha’belannar_ at work. The older generation seemed to take her far more seriously than the younger set. So he was out, too.

What she did know was that she couldn’t stay here. Marethari was not the same Keeper she’d known through childhood. The people in the camp around here, they weren’t the same Mahariel clan she’d left during the Blight.

Líadan opened the door to escape the stuffy confines of the aravel that had been cozy and warm only moments before. 

“The Mahariel will not name you an exile,” said Marethari.

Exile from a clan of strangers wearing the masks of elves she once loved didn’t seem much a punishment. The realization rendered the Keeper’s reprieve meaningless, and it left Líadan without anything to say. 

She exited the aravel, leaving no reply behind. Not until she’d gotten a good ten paces away did she realize she’d forgotten Merrill. Some clanmate _she_ was, concentrating on her own predicament when her clanmate’s was much worse. Líadan at least had a bondmate, as well as the support of one Dalish clan, however much Lanaya’s clan was unreachable for the time being. Merrill had no clan, no bondmate. Nothing, it seemed, except that sodding eluvian shard, and no one seemed driven to go help her.

Líadan decided she could do that. When she went to Kirkwall, she would go see Merrill first, and make her understand how she couldn’t keep working with the eluvian. Merrill was smart; she’d understand, once spoken to not by a vague, frustrating Keeper.

“This is wrong,” came Fenarel’s voice as he stepped out from between two aravels just in front of her. He’d used the footsteps from inside the landships to mask his own, and took Líadan by surprise.

She did manage to keep her surprise from being expressed. “Yes, it is,” she replied, attempting to keep Fenarel on the right topic of the Mahariel not having halla and Marethari turning down a new First, and not whatever it was that was truly bothering him. “The clan needs halla. The clan needs a First. And the clan really, really needs to leave Sundermount.”

“That wasn’t what I was referring to.” He moved his arm in a slashing motion to gesture toward her middle. “That. That is what’s wrong. You’re truly lost now, you know that, right?” Fenarel almost managed to sound sad.

And Líadan almost believed him, were this not merely a continuance of an argument they’d had during her last visit. “From where you’re standing, you’d be better off figuring out how to keep the clan from becoming sicker than worrying about someone who left the clan years ago.”

“You left because the humans took you. You weren’t exiled, so there was always hope, always a way for you to return. But that’s gone, now.” He pointed. “With that. I’d ask how could you, but I already know how much you enjoy—”

Líadan stepped closer to him, into his personal space. “I think you should shut up. I think you should shut up because I seem to recall the last time I was here, we had our fight interrupted, and if I recall correctly, I was winning. There’s no qunari Warden here to save you this time. So shut up. I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t care. Even Tamlen would find you extreme, if he saw you—”

Fenarel closed the space between them even more, nearly in her face as he shouted, “Never say his name! You have no right!”

“I have every right.” Where Fenarel had resorted to shouting, Líadan spoke more quietly. “He was my hunting partner. He was my best friend. I saw him die because of that cursed eluvian. I have every right to say his name, just as I had every right to mourn him.”

“That thing inside you,” Fenarel said, and punctuated his disgust by spitting on the ground, “should have been his, had he lived. Or mine, had you stayed. Instead, you debased yourself with a shemlen, and now you carry a human child.” A hunting knife flashed out, drawn from Fenarel’s hip, its tip angling down toward Líadan’s belly. “I can fix it. I can make it so you aren’t lost to the People.” The knife slipped closer. “All it would take—”

Líadan’s dagger was out and pressed against the other elf’s throat before she even realized she’d decided on a course of action. Her momentum carried them into the outside wall of the nearest aravel, with Fenarel’s back slamming into it as he gaped at her. 

Her dagger remained in place against his neck, just the Dread Wolf’s whisker away from drawing blood. “No.”

“It’s human.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s still my child. If you threaten her again, I will kill you.”

His hands, which had been braced against her forearms to stave off her blade, fell to his sides. “So you are lost,” he said, the almost-sad look returning to his eyes.

Líadan stepped back from him and sheathed her blade. “I don’t think I’m the one who’s lost, _lethallin_. You might want to take a good look at yourself and the clan.” He studied her for a long moment, and then fled into the trees behind the aravel. She watched him go to assure herself he wouldn’t be coming back to resume their fight before she turned her back on the aravels. When he didn’t reappear, she spun and resumed her walk back to the two aravels where she and her party were staying at the edge of the Mahariel camp.

The entire confrontation felt strange to her, and its strangeness overrode the anxiety from it. Fenarel had always been a prat, forceful in his dislike and opinions, but she had never seen him become violent over disagreements with other elves. With humans, yes, but not elves, not in the entire time she’d known him. While she’d expected him to be angry with her and her situation, she’d never thought he’d threaten her. Yet, he had, and the odd behavior left her almost as shaken as his threats. Maybe it was another symptom of the sickness taking the Mahariel clan. Maybe he’d just become more than a prat while she’d been away. 

One thing was for sure: her threat hadn’t been a lie. If it came to it, she’d kill him to protect her child, whether it was the child she carried or if it were Cáel. She just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

She rounded the last aravel and crossed the final distance between the main Mahariel camp and her own small one. On stepping into the light cast by the large fire, she noticed immediately that Malcolm had a cut on his cheek that he hadn’t possessed when she’d left him there. Had he run into Fenarel? “What—what’s that mark on your face?” she asked before offering a greeting.

Malcolm’s hand went to his cheekbone as he turned, and when his hand came away, Líadan saw that it was bruised, slightly swollen, and the skin had been split. “Oh, that,” said Malcolm, and then he shrugged. “Cammen hit me.”

Líadan stared at him. Not that she wanted Malcolm to be harmed in a fight, but Malcolm was far taller and stronger than Cammen, and if Cammen had gotten a hit in on Malcolm, then she feared for what condition Cammen had been left in. 

“I didn’t hit him back,” Malcolm said when he noticed her look. “He’s fine. Well, he bloodied his knuckles, but I think he’ll survive.”

“What in Mythal’s name would possess him to hit you?”

Another shrug. “He was just letting me know that he believes I should have bonded with you before I, well, you know.”

What was _wrong_ with everyone? “He what? It isn’t his place—”

“Seeing as you haven’t got a brother, and that the person you saw as a brother died during the Blight, he felt someone had to step up. So, he did. Then we shook hands and bitched about Fenarel, so it worked out.” Malcolm didn’t seem bothered at all by Cammen’s hit. In fact, he seemed rather pleased by it. 

It made no sense to Líadan. They were right, however, in of how Tamlen would have reacted, had he been alive. He probably wouldn’t have stopped at just hitting Malcolm. “Where is he?” she asked with a sigh. 

“Said something about soaking his hand in a stream. Promised he’d come back.” Malcolm pointed. “He went that way.”

“Oisín went after him to heal his hand,” Ariane said as she stepped out of the aravel. Then she leaned against it and crossed her arms. “What I’m quite curious about, Líadan, is why you pulled a knife on Fenarel.”

“You wouldn’t ask if you’d seen him pull one on me first,” said Líadan, more annoyed because of _course_ Ariane had to see the argument from the top of her aravel.

Malcolm straightened. “He what? Sod it, I’m killing him.” He bent to pick up his sword belt, but Líadan put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

“There’s no point,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Whatever’s wrong with the Mahariel is wrong with him. Before, he never would’ve harmed an elf over a disagreement. What he did, those weren’t the actions of the Fenarel I’ve known since we were children. He’s changed. Maybe it’s Sundermount. Nothing in history indicates that anyone has ever stayed around Sundermount for this long.”

Cammen and Oisín emerged from the brush, with both of Cammen’s hands looking perfectly intact. “Fenarel has become darker lately,” said Cammen. “It’s the only way I can describe it. He’s always been grumpy and surly, but now he’s more apt to express his displeasure with fists instead of shouted words.” He inclined his head toward Líadan. “As you discovered.”

“I don’t understand why the clan hasn’t left.” Líadan slowly moved her hand from Malcolm’s arm, though she stayed nearby in case he suddenly changed his mind and tore after Fenarel. 

“It could be that the Keeper is waiting for Merrill to come around.” Cammen sighed and warily glanced up at Sundermount. “Creators know if that will ever happen. But I can’t think of any other reason why she’d turn down a First offered by the Arlathvhen. Or why she’d turn down perfectly good halla.”

“So why hasn’t anyone gone and gotten Merrill?” Honestly, was she the only one who saw the answer to the problem? They go rescue Merrill, bring her home, and then leave the dangerous camp at the base of Sundermount. Simple. Yet, no one had done it. No one had destroyed the last shard before Merrill could use it to build a new eluvian. No one had even ventured into the human city.

Cammen’s reply was to blink at her in confusion. 

With an exasperated sigh, Líadan pushed past him and to the other aravel’s door, where her grandfather was staying. He answered her single knock, gave her a long, level look, and then stepped aside to allow her in. Once she was past him, he closed the door, and then motioned for her to sit at his table. Emrys, however, did not offer her any tea, nor did he drink any of his own.

“I believe this is the first time you’ve visited me voluntarily since you were quite small,” he said.

“Extenuating circumstances.” She frowned, catching on to how screwed up that sounded, that her visiting her grandfather was due to stress instead of the other way around. Then she pushed it aside. Her tepid relationship with her grandfather wasn’t the topic. This was about Merrill, and by extension, the Mahariel. “Are you aware of what Merrill’s trying to do?”

He nodded. “Of course. She’s attempting to restore the eluvian you discovered with your friend Tamlen.”

“She’s doing it against the wishes of her clan, against Keeper Marethari’s wishes, and—”

“Against yours?”

Angry at how easily Emrys saw through her, she scowled. “That eluvian tainted me and stole Tamlen. It brings nothing but death and misery, and it should be destroyed. Merrill needs to give up her project and return to the Mahariel so they can move on from this place.”

“I believe Merrill’s work should continue. It was her choice to leave her clan to do it, and she should be afforded that choice, as is any free person’s right.”

“Are you all blind? This place is making all of them sick. You said so yourself. Merrill has to return, she has to come back to her people so they can leave and be well again.”

Emrys studied her for a time, and then raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying this because you truly believe Merrill needs to return to the Mahariel, or because Merrill has an action left to her that you cannot do, but wish to? Do you insist Merrill come back to her clan because you cannot?”

“No, of course not.” And of course, Emrys was right, just a little. Merrill had an option that Líadan really did not, and though she wouldn’t have chosen that option, Líadan wished it were still open to her. For what reason, she couldn’t say, but she recognized the want easily enough. Her glare on Emrys was ineffective, and instead of delving deeper into her thoughts than she wanted to, Líadan flung the inquiry onto her grandfather. “Merrill was abandoned, exiled for an offense not even punishable by exile. You said a Keeper should not abandon their people. You’re staying here to rescue the Mahariel for that very reason. You’re rescuing them, and you do nothing for Merrill. She’s drowning out there among the humans, and you haven’t even the decency to toss her a rope.” Líadan stood, her fists pressed against the top of the table. “She’s my clanmate. I’m not going to let her drown. I’m going to help her, because it seems no one else will.”

She was halfway to the door when Emrys said quietly, “You are my rope, _da’len_.”

Líadan didn’t turn around, assuming she had misheard. She knew quite well that Emrys didn’t view her as a rescuer, but as one who needed rescue.


	63. Chapter 63

“Statues of tortured slaves fill the Gallows courtyard, a ghastly memento of Kirkwall’s history. Fifteen hundred years ago, Kirkwall was the Tevinter Imperium’s largest quarry, feeding the construction of the Imperial Highway.

The Imperium’s hunger for expansion led to legions of slaves forced into working the quarry. When the empire’s construction phase ended, Kirkwall slid naturally into its new role as the capital of the slave trade—the Gallows at its heart.

The statues are not monuments to the suffering of slaves. Every inch and angle of the courtyard was designed by magisters bent on breaking the spirit of newcomers. Executions here took place daily, sometimes hourly, and corpses were hung from gibbets throughout the yard. New slaves trudging in from the docks saw what awaited them.

When Our Lady turned her armies against the Imperium, the slaves of Kirkwall revolted and claimed the city for themselves. The Gallows stood empty for two hundred years, not to be reopened until the crowning of Divine Justinia I. The Gallows transformed the city again when the abandoned prison tower became the home of Kirkwall’s Circle.”

—from _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ by Brother Genitivi

**Líadan**

The shared morning meal at the small camp was a quiet affair. The haunting atmosphere of Sundermount coupled with the bizarre behavior of the Mahariel served well to mute their normal chatter. Only when they’d begun to clean up did anyone speak.

Líadan wasn’t surprised at all that it was Emrys. “If you plan to go to Kirkwall,” he said without glancing up from his last piece of pan bread, “the child cannot go with you. Kirkwall is unsafe for him, perhaps even more perilous than Sundermount.”

“It hasn’t exactly stopped being dangerous here, either,” said Malcolm.

Emrys looked up from his plate to focus on Líadan. “Have Ariane bring the child, his nurse, and his guard back to where the Suriel have camped.”

Malcolm grumbled bitterly under his breath about Emrys’ constant dismissal. “And how exactly do we know your clan isn’t a danger, too?”

Finally, the Keeper acknowledged Malcolm’s presence with a long stare. “Not a single one of the Suriel would ever cross _Asha’belannar_.” 

It was the only thing Emrys could have said that Líadan would have believed—and she did believe him. She only wished Emrys’ logic didn’t mean leaving Cáel behind once again. While it wouldn’t be for very long—provided their side trip to the Beyond didn’t go entirely wrong—it wasn’t something she liked.

Malcolm gave Emrys a curt nod. “All right.”

The party split soon afterward, with Nuala and Kennard taking Cáel to the Suriel, accompanied by Ariane and Revas. Oisín stayed with Emrys and the Mahariel, the two of them determined to figure out what ailed the clan enough change them from what they had been before. Bethany went with Malcolm and Líadan, the three of them planning to enter Kirkwall through the Gallows. With all of them being Grey Wardens, they had no reason to find any of the lesser-known entrances to the city.

She still hadn’t told Malcolm about _Asha’belannar’s_ involvement with their daughter. Between her reluctance to do so and her exhaustion the night before, she hadn’t mentioned the subject of her shortened conversation with Marethari. Then with the light of day and the work they had ahead of them, she felt tired even thinking about it, which meant she hadn’t yet said anything. She would, and soon, because Malcolm needed to know, but she also needed time to think. The possibility of a second conversation with Marethari also wasn’t out of the question, if she could bring herself to speak civilly with her again. While Líadan didn’t known Marethari being indebted to _Asha’belannar_ , she did doubt _Asha’belannar_ having such a vested interested in her or whatever child she and Malcolm may or may not have had. The only reason Líadan could think for _Asha’belannar_ to be interested in her was because of Cáel. 

Yet, when _Asha’belannar’s_ supposed influence had aided in the conception of their unborn child, Líadan hadn’t yet promised Morrigan to be Cáel’s mother, nor had they even known Cáel existed, not for certain. Maybe _Asha’belannar_ had known everything beforehand. Maybe she hadn’t been involved at all. Maybe a bit of both. Sorting it out required too much emotional investment, and she hadn’t any energy to spare. Once the demon was dealt with, she’d confront the problem of _Asha’belannar_. She’d tell Malcolm, he’d want to sort it all out right then, complete with calling out _Asha’belannar_ for a long, involved chat. She wondered if there was a possibility of the visit being civil, maybe Malcolm simply attempting to summon _Asha’belannar_ to see her grandson.

No. That would be absurd. The Woman of Many Years did not make social calls, kin of hers or not. She was much like Emrys in that regard.

Unwilling to devote more energy to it for the time being, Líadan concentrated on how she thought their chosen method for entering the city to be roundabout at best. And the statues! Had she known about them beforehand, she would have requested they take a different route. Creators, if the misery the statues projected was anything like what her ancestors suffered before they left for the Dales, she understood, even better, why the Dalish had foregone submitting themselves to the humans once more. The statues above them, they did not give hope for mercy.

Bethany appeared to be well-known enough that the guards let their small party right through to where the ferries were kept to bring visitors to the city proper. 

“Famous or infamous?” Malcolm asked her once they were underway. 

She sighed. “Both, I imagine. My sister keeps company with interesting folk. Some above the law, some below it, and some even keep it.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow.

Bethany only sighed again. “The city’s guard-captain is a friend of ours. Like me and my family, she’s another Fereldan refugee. She came with us from Lothering, actually. Her name’s Aveline Vallen. My sister will introduce you, if there’s time. Aveline survived the Battle of Ostagar, so maybe you’ve seen her, or she saw you there.”

“Maker, I hope not.” 

Had Líadan not been concentrating on keeping her breakfast from ending up in Kirkwall’s harbor, she would have found Malcolm’s discomfort amusing. Admittedly, she did wonder just how he’d been back then, at the beginning of the Blight. From the stories she’d heard from him and others, he’d changed a lot by the time she met him in the middle of it. And from some of those same stories, she hoped Cáel didn’t go through the same rough transition into adulthood when he came of age. 

“Were you at Ostagar?” she heard Bethany ask, which seemed silly, since she’d just mentioned Malcolm having been there.

“She means you,” said Malcolm. He punctuated his statement with a nudge, but once he got a good look at her face, turned to Bethany again. “She’ll probably answer you if you use one of your nifty healing spells on her. Seasick. Happens almost every time she’s on water.”

“Imagine how much better you’d feel already if you knew how to heal,” Bethany said to Líadan.

“Right, because that particular thought had never crossed my mind before at all.” Líadan rolled her eyes. “Heal me or not, just don’t make fun of me. Eventually, we’ll be on dry land again, and then we’ll see how long you’ll be picking on me for.”

“I didn’t realize orneriness was part of seasickness, but I suppose there’s a new aspect to everything.” Yet, even as she spoke, Bethany waved a hand and the fog of Líadan’s nausea lifted. 

“Thank you.” Líadan was proud that she managed to sound truly grateful. Too bad none of them had remembered the healing until they were practically at the docks.

After they disembarked, Bethany took the lead, given that she knew her way around the city, and that Malcolm and Líadan were doing their level-best not to gawk. While Kirkwall was an order of magnitude bigger than Denerim, there were other parts where it didn’t seem to outshine Ferelden’s largest city. Lowtown was dirtier, smellier, and darker than the worst parts of Denerim. There was also something about the layout that wasn’t intuitive, which made Líadan happy that Bethany was there to help them, or they’d probably have been hopelessly lost. “This city makes no sense,” she said as they walked through the last part of Lowtown before the Alienage, where Bethany had said they’d find Merrill. “Forests have more coherency than this city.”

“Varric told me he got a look at the plans for the whole city, once,” Bethany said over her shoulder as she led the group. “Said while it feels like a maze when you’re inside it, if you see the plans, they have a sort of pattern.”

Líadan kicked a pebble into one of the side alleys. “Maybe if you squint.”

Bethany sighed, and then pointed ahead of them at a stone staircase leading down past open iron gates. “The Alienage is down there.”

From the top of the steps, just past where they took a corner and descended further, Líadan caught patches of green shifting in the wind. Leaves, she realized, and remembered the large trees in Denerim and Highever’s alienages. It was the vhenadahl, the city elves’ only connection to the Dalish, and by extension, to Arlathan. As they descended into the Alienage, the tree took prominence, compelling anyone who entered the quarter to look right at it. This vhenadahl was different from the others Líadan had seen. Most likely, it was the best cared-for of any of them. Its base was painted with an intricate design she couldn’t readily identify, and the trunk was surrounded by—she stopped and stared. Lights of Mythal. 

Behind her, she heard Malcolm murmuring something of the same. After shaking her head, she continued her descent. Signs and statues of the Creators should have brought her comfort, and instead, they left her unsettled. Mythal was well and good, but she needed balance. Her balance was given by gods such as June and Sylaise, Elgar’nan and Andruil, Dirthamen and Falon’Din. Without them, she was too powerful, too angry, and Líadan didn’t like the portent given when she saw dedication to Mythal alone.

When the small group got to the lowest level of ramshackle buildings nearest the water, Bethany brought them to a door tucked away in an alcove. “This is where Merrill lives,” she said to Líadan. “It’s not much, but it’s a far sight better than Darktown.” She knocked on the door a few times. “Merrill? It’s me, Bethany. I’ve got someone with me I think you might want to see.”

“Come in, then!” came a familiar voice through the wooden door. “It’s not barred!”

Bethany pinched the bridge of her nose. “She really needs to learn to bar her door. Maker, this is Kirkwall. You can’t just leave your door unlocked.” Then she looked over at Líadan. “I’ll go find something to do. They’ve got some neat stuff in the wares around here. Find me when you’re ready.” Then she flitted off to a nearby stall, but Líadan barely registered it, her mind focused on how the other person nearly as intimately tied to the eluvian as she was waited on the other side of the door. Then her mind focused on how Merrill could be one of the last survivors of the Mahariel clan as it was before, because the clan who lived at the base of Sundermount was not the clan Líadan had known for her entire life before she’d become a Grey Warden. 

Líadan reached out, and the door creaked as soon as her fingers touched it.

“I’ll just... wait out here,” she vaguely heard Malcolm say as she opened it the rest of the way and walked through.

She found Merrill shuffling out of a back room, eyes fixed on small book in her hand, wearing the grays, greens, and browns that would have allowed her to blend in with the forest, if she still lived among the rest of the Dalish. As if to ward off the damp chill, she had a scarf wrapped around her neck that Líadan hadn’t seen before. Though, Merrill probably could have done better with keeping warm if she had on proper boots. Líadan deliberately let her steps fall heavily on the floor in order to draw Merrill’s attention. Startling an incredibly powerful mage tended to lead to bad ends.

The other elf looked up, and her eyes widened on seeing her. “ _Lethallan_!” Merrill practically squealed as she dropped the book she’d been holding and raced over to embrace her.

“Merrill, where are your shoes?” was the first thing Líadan could ask after she managed to pry Merrill’s arms from around her. However, she didn’t begrudge Merrill the sentiment. She knew exactly how it felt.

“My shoes?” Merrill looked down and wriggled her toes. “But my feet are so free here! It’s usually warm, so there’s no need for shoes to keep feet from freezing. Now isn’t a very good example, of course, but you’ll see if you stay. Are you here to say? I don’t think you’ll like Kirkwall very much, if you are.”

Líadan wrinkled her nose in disgust, immediately thinking of the city’s maze of streets. “I can’t keep my bearings here. I keep getting lost, and I’m usually good at navigation.”

“Oh, me too! With the lost part, not so much the navigation. I always needed the halla for that, but I do keep getting lost here. Varric gave me a ball of twine to use to mark my way, but people keep cutting it to use it for other things, so that hasn’t worked.” Merrill jumped, as if she’d just recalled something. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you? Would you like something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.” She wasn’t really fine, but at least she wasn’t thirsty. And Merrill... seemed like Merrill, and not the drowning Dalish elf she’d assumed would need rescue. Her step portrayed confidence despite the impoverished surroundings. They were in the city, and yet the former First of the Mahariel projected as much power and ability as she’d had when she’d lived amongst the Dalish. Taken by surprise at how normal Merrill seemed, Líadan barely kept from shaking her head. She did at least thank Merrill for her offer.

“You’re welcome,” Merrill said brightly, and then reached for Líadan’s hand. “Here, I’ve something to show you.” She tugged at the hand, her grip strong as a hunter’s, and then motioned to the rear of the building.

As Líadan followed Merrill farther into the tiny alienage hovel, she wondered if Merrill had been this cheerful with the Dalish. She recalled Merrill being an optimist and tending to think the best of people, but Líadan didn’t remember this much exuberance. Maybe she’d been wrong, both about how Merrill had been as a person with the Dalish, and that maybe she wasn’t tinkering with the tainted eluvian. When they passed what served for Merrill’s table, a sleek cat jumped up onto Líadan’s shoulder. She started, and then turned to find the cat staring at her. It was more than a little unnerving, up until she realized she’d seen the cat before, when he was very little.

“That’s—”

“Ser Pounce,” Líadan finished for Merrill. “I know. I helped Sigrun get him from an alley when he was a kitten, and we gave him to Anders.”

“I think he likes you.”

“I did rescue him from an alley. That has to count for something. But how did Ser Pounce end up with you? Not that I think you shouldn’t have a cat, but he was Anders’ cat.”

“The Wardens forced him to give him up, before they went into the Deep Roads. He came to Lowtown looking for someone to take Ser Pounce in, so I volunteered.”

Considering Merrill had taken in several abandoned baby wild animals as she’d grown up, it wasn’t much of a stretch for her to take in kittens. Líadan laughed, warmed at finding Merrill’s habits still so familiar.

Merrill drew back a curtain that led the two of them into a back room, where Líadan’s burgeoning hopes were crushed. There, in the corner of the room, stood a rough frame that held a shard of an eluvian, _the_ eluvian, and stacks of new glass beside it. 

All the carefully reasoned out questions and explanations fled from Líadan’s head, rendering her shocked and stammering at the reappearance of a dark part of her past. “How could you... what would possess you to—why?”

“I kept it,” said Merrill. “A piece of it, anyway. All the Keeper would let me when we left Ferelden. But I had to keep something. I needed it, to find a way to cure you, to find Tamlen. It’s our history. It couldn’t be all bad, could it?”

Then her anger found her, anger with her clanmate for risking herself like she and Tamlen already had, risking paying a price as dear a one as she and Tamlen had already paid. Líadan spun to face Merrill, keeping the partially rebuilt eluvian out of sight. “Yes! Yes, it could. It killed Tamlen and it nearly killed me.” She jammed a finger at it, as if she could will her index finger to stab it. “This thing was the reason I was forced from the clan.” Though she’d encountered other eluvians and their remains since this first one, none of them felt the same as this particular one. With the others, she couldn’t feel this one’s creeping taint as it skulked across her skin, fine hairs left raised in its wake.

When Merrill didn’t reply, instead only staring at her with huge eyes, Líadan went on. The entire time, she resisted shaking the other woman. “This is why I was sent away. It sends us all away. This thing is why you were exiled. This is folly! You’re smarter, better than this. You’re supposed to be Keeper after Marethari. Why would you forsake yourself and your people for such a thing?” That she could be accused of the same, Líadan ignored, as best she could.

Merrill said nothing, and then her eyes dropped to the unmistakable, rounded swelling in Líadan’s middle. Though she’d looked, and Merrill’s steady gaze had returned to meet Líadan’s, her eyes were bereft of the accusation Líadan had been expecting. Merrill’s question was posed in a tone gentle and soft. “Why would you bear a human’s child?”

It wasn’t like Líadan hadn’t asked herself the same question more times than she could count over the past months. It wasn’t like Emrys hadn’t posed the very same questions. Not that she’d answered them, his or her own. “She is the only child of my own body that I’ll ever have,” she told Merrill. “My being a Grey Warden was supposed to preclude even that possibility.”

Merrill slowly shook her head, as if disappointed in Líadan’s answer. “What’s the real reason? You have never lied to me before. In fact, you could always be counted on to speak your mind and the truth to me, kind or unkind.”

Líadan was distinctly reminded that Merrill, if not for her strange obsession with the eluvian, would make an excellent Keeper. Then her thoughts went to the human man, her bondmate, waiting outside, probably feeling awkward and pretending to study the vhenadahl in order to avoid curious stares from the alienage’s residents. “Because I love her father,” she said to Merrill. 

“And that is how I feel about the People,” said Merrill.

The remark stung, and Líadan couldn’t hide her flinch.

“Oh! Oh no, _lethallan_!” Merrill reached out and took Líadan’s hands. “That isn’t how I meant it. Not a judgement of you or where your life has led you. It was a poor metaphor, now that I think about it. What I meant is that you will do things you never thought you would do because of the depth of your feelings for him. I feel that way about the People, how I want to reclaim our past and future, so much that I suffered exile and more.”

The dread that had retreated at Merrill’s reassurances returned with a vengeance. This time, instead of fearing for herself, Líadan feared for her clanmate. “More?”

Merrill gave her hands a final squeeze and let go to pace. “There was a spirit. Anders insists it was a demon, but we both know spirits are spirits. Usually. But I had to cleanse the taint from the glass, you see, and the spirit helped me.”

“So that’s where you learned blood magic. I had wondered, since Marethari doesn’t care for it, herself, and does not teach it.”

“Yes. It was the only thing left to try, and it worked.”

“Maybe.” Líadan cast a sharp look at the shard. She could still feel it. She could hear vague whispers on the edge of her consciousness, and she was certain the shard could corrupt. Already, it was working on Merrill, if she were still dealing with a spirit. “You need to stop,” Líadan said quietly, her eyes remaining on the shard. “Destroy it, shatter it, and then grind it under heavy stone. Gather the powder left and throw it into the sea.”

“You know I can’t do that.” Merrill seemed to be the only person Líadan knew who could refuse a request and yet sound incredibly sad that she was doing so. “I have to fix this for our people.”

Líadan clenched her hands into fists to keep from snatching up the shard and destroying it, herself. “I don’t want to lose another clanmate to it. Not like we lost Tamlen. Not like I lost...” She took a painful breath at what she knew she was admitting, and looked neither at Merrill or the eluvian, but at the terribly worn wooden floor. “Not like I lost myself.” 

“I know what I’m doing, _lethallan_. You won’t lose me, I promise.” Merrill’s voice carried a certainty that went beyond assured, like she believed so strongly that she knew she would prevail.

Líadan didn’t feel the same assurance. She was certain Merrill meant what she said, but that Merrill didn’t know, not completely, what the eluvian could do. Merrill certainly couldn’t know what the spirit’s involvement would affect. Her resulting gaze fixed on the shard was wary, and she wanted to crush it, to destroy it like she’d told Merrill to do. But she couldn’t even lift her hand to do so. Then she knew she couldn’t destroy the eluvian shard for Merrill, not when she could never bring herself to even touch it.

Merrill grasped her arm, and the gentle touch pulled Líadan out of the stranglehold of memory and back to the present. “It can’t hurt you,” Merrill said. “Not anymore.”

“It’s yet to stop.”

“Anders told me you were in trouble.” She withdrew her hands in order to wring them together, as if remembering whatever it was Anders had mentioned.

“We’ll just ignore yours, then?” Her clanmate had always tended to put aside her own issues in order to help someone else, at times to her own detriment.

Merrill shrugged. “Mine isn’t so immediate. You’ve a spirit after you, a very not nice one, and you’re not in any condition to fight it in the Beyond.” She reached out, and then seemed to think better of it, and halted with her hands half-extended toward Líadan’s belly. “May I?” she asked. “It’s all right if you say no. Anders says people don’t tend to like blood mages much, and really don’t like it when blood mages touch them. But, I wanted to see—”

“It’s fine,” said Líadan. “Sod Anders. Just because you use blood magic doesn’t mean you’re dangerous. Well, you’re dangerous, but only to enemies. And you were dangerous before you learned blood magic. It’s just another tool.”

She grinned, and its brightness momentarily chased away the gloom of the alienage apartment. “I tell him that all the time, but he never listens.” Then she placed her small hands on Líadan’s belly, whereupon the child inside kicked several times as if greeting the newcomer. “Oh, she’s strong,” Merrill said. “Does that keep you up at night, all that kicking?”

“Depends on what she kicks.” Most of the time, Líadan could ignore it. Other times, it meant too many trips to the privy.

Merrill giggled and withdrew her hands. “We should go find Anders. He’d probably like to get started, and I’m sure you’d like that spirit to leave you and your daughter alone.” She began to gather up various things and head for the door.

“Do you think... do you think it’s after her?” Because what Líadan feared most wasn’t that she would fall to the demon, it was that somehow the demon could take her child before she even had a chance to breathe on her own. 

“I’m not sure. Dark-minded spirits can be very opportunistic. And if they’re particularly persistent, they could find a way to get to her.”

“Then we need to stop it.”

Merrill stopped in her preparations long enough to meet Líadan’s look with a determined, assured one of her own. “We will, _lethallan_. I promise.” Then she exited the hovel, leaving Líadan to momentarily stare after her. 

Keeper Marethari had thrown away an incredibly good First when she’d exiled Merrill. The Mahariel would suffer for it, whatever happened. Líadan shook her head to wake herself, and then followed Merrill outside.

There, Merrill had already sighted Malcolm, who had been standing awkwardly under the vhenadahl. “Oh! I remember you!” Merrill said as she pointed at him. “You’re the one who broke the eluvian!”

Malcolm raised both his eyebrows. “I was not. That was my brother, Alistair.”

Merrill tilted her head to the side to study him. “Yes, I see that now. You look different than before. More grown up.”

“I seem to get that a lot lately,” said Malcolm. 

Bethany hid a laugh behind her hand. “If this is grown up, I’m afraid to ask what you were like before.”

“As well you should be,” said Líadan. The banter felt better than the heavy subjects she’d broached with Merrill. And now that they were out of Merrill’s home and slowly walking out of the alienage, Líadan realized that Merrill hadn’t agreed to do any of the things Líadan had asked, and was in no less danger than before. Very _Keeper_ -like, in her opinion, as she watched Merrill happily walk on Malcolm’s other side.

Meanwhile, Merrill had tilted her head to the opposite side, as if reassessing Malcolm. “Isn’t your brother the King of Ferelden? I’ve heard people talking about King Alistair in the Hanged Man. Sometimes, they mention the Blight, and how he and his brother—who has your name—worked together to rally forces.”

“King Alistair is my brother, yes. Same Alistair I just mentioned.”

If Líadan hadn’t known him so well, she wouldn’t have noticed the sigh he held in. She elbowed him in the side for nearly being boorish to her friend. He ignored her.

“So, that makes you a prince, right? A real prince?” asked Merrill. Líadan suspected her old clanmate had a goal in mind with the direction of her questioning, but as it was with Merrill, she couldn’t decipher what it could be.

“Some would say.” To Malcolm’s credit, he managed to sound normal, even to Líadan. “Others, not so much.”

Bethany hummed in agreement. “A prince among men, he is not.”

Malcolm finally reacted to her, rolling his eyes before saying, “I think I liked it better when you made moony eyes at me because you didn’t know me. You didn’t make fun of me as much when you were impressed by who you thought I was.”

“Who I thought you were is the key there.” Bethany smiled at him to tell him she didn’t mean it. Much.

He sighed as he looked out on Lowtown when they exited the Alienage.

“If you’re a prince,” Merrill continued, undaunted, “can you knight things? For instance, could you knight a cat?”

At first, he seemed to be considering her question, and then he blinked and stared when she got to the end. He opened his mouth and closed it before he managed to answer. “I’m... not sure I have the authority, really, to knight anyone, up to and including cats. You could ask my brother, though, if you ever meet him. He might do it. He’d have to meet the cat, first.”

As Merrill tapped a finger on her lips to ponder Malcolm’s answer, Malcolm shot Líadan a look informing her that he thought Merrill to be not all there. Líadan shrugged and gave him a half-smile in reply. His expression shifted from mirth and confusion to concern, and he lifted an eyebrow to ask how her talk with Merrill had gone. Since the explanation was too involved for a wordless check-in, she gave him another shrug. His brow furrowed in additional concern, wondering if she was doing all right. In response, she flashed him a smile of reassurance, and then briefly rubbed the small of his back to let him know she was fine. He put a quick arm around her shoulder to tell her he understood. Then they continued onward through the dockside area of Kirkwall, the scent of salt covering the questionable smell of Lowtown.

“You just had an entire conversation and you didn’t say a word,” said Bethany. “My parents used to do that. I remember from when I was small. It always impressed me.”

Malcolm grinned. “Ah ha! Back to being impressed!”

“Sounds like your bonding was a good match, then,” said Merrill. “Even if he’s a human. Really, that would be Keeper Marethari’s only objection. If you ignore the human part, there’s no other reason to object.”

“Except most Dalish believe it to be enough a reason to oppose it,” said Malcolm, not without some resentment. “And they treat the Dalish elf in question awfully. The Suriel were terrible.”

Merrill frowned. “When did you see the Suriel? They’re a clan that’s hard to find, even when they want to be found, which is usually never.”

“We traveled with them from Ferelden. The _Arlathvhen_ had halla for the Mahariel, and the Suriel were tasked to bring them.”

“I bet you Keeper Marethari won’t take them.” Merrill leaned over to look at Líadan. “So you saw your grandfather, then? I know you hadn’t seen him in years.”

“I did.”

“I remember him having a scary frown, scarier even than Marethari’s is. He frowned, didn’t he?”

“Lots,” said Malcolm.

“Did you see Keeper Marethari, too? Did she frown?” Merrill asked Líadan.

“Yes. She frowned, and yet she asked me to be her First again since she keeps refusing to let you come back. And that was after she turned down the First who’d been sent with Emrys from the Ra’asiel.”

Merrill nodded as if she’d already known everything that’d happened. “It’s my choice not to go back, but the Mahariel need a First. Oisín is a good choice, so I don’t why Marethari would need—” She stopped her ramble before she really got going in favor of staring at Líadan. “Did you say Keeper Marethari asked you to become her First?”

Líadan sighed. “Yes.” She wanted to be off the subject of the Mahariel and the Suriel and probably all the Dalish and on to killing the demon in the Beyond, which meant they needed to stop chatting and get to Anders. However, Merrill required patience. Only the fact that she missed her friend and was incredibly grateful to see her alive and seemingly doing well kept her from brusquely returning the subject to the Beyond.

“But you would make a terrible Keeper!” 

“Merrill!” said Bethany.

“Well, she would,” said Merrill. 

“No need to come to my defense,” Líadan said as she waved off Bethany. “I entirely agree with Merrill, and I told Marethari the same. I don’t know why she and Emrys seem to think elf plus magic equals will be a good Keeper.”

Merrill shook her head. “No, not always. Your magic isn’t strong enough.”

“Which is another thing I said.” Creators, Merrill had more sense in her than Marethari seemed to as of late, and Merrill was supposedly the one under the influence of a spirit. If Líadan hadn’t known better, she’d have thought it the other way around.

“And she didn’t listen to you?” Merrill went on before she could answer. “Well, she never really was very good at listening to you. Not after... not after.”

Years had passed, and Merrill and the rest of the Mahariel were still reluctant to speak of what had happened to Líadan’s parents. Granted, Líadan didn’t want to talk about it anymore than they did, so it worked out. “To be fair,” she said out loud, “I didn’t much listen to her, either.”

“Well, that’s true.” Merrill clapped and started to point, but Bethany managed to catch her arm and keep it down. 

“No pointing,” said Bethany. “Gets people riled up, remember?”

“Oh, right. But then how will I point out that hornless qunari? I told Varric about it yesterday and he said I was fertilizing the daisies with that drivel. Why would I make that up? I didn’t even know qunari could be hornless.”

“They can,” said Malcolm. “Means they’re special or something. That’s what Sten told me.”

“I used to chat with a Sten every morning,” said Merrill. “Well, I chatted and he just sort of stared, but he was listening, I’m sure. Sometimes, he grunted. But he’s been gone lately, and the other qunari I’ve run into have been... testy, I think that’s the word.”

“They’re usually testy, Merrill,” said Bethany.

“Yes, but now they’re all acting like the Arishok. They didn’t used to _all_ act like that. Some of them could almost even smile. But not anymore, they don’t. I don’t like it.”

“Now you know what the qunari are like to the rest of us.” Bethany motioned toward a tall set of stone steps that led impossibly upward. “This is where we split up. I need to go to Hightown to find my sister and mother. You three’ll get Anders and meet up with us at my family’s estate.”

While Bethany’s descent was upward, theirs was downward into a dank, deep pit by way of a rickety wooden lift that Líadan believed would fall apart at any moment. It creaked ominously when Malcolm stepped on it, and if he wore heavier armor, she wasn’t sure if it would’ve held. The humidity worsened as they descended, clinging to their skin in a miasma of grime. When they stepped off the lift, Líadan was nearly knocked over by the smell. If she had thought the odor of Lowtown was questionable, the stench of Darktown was unspeakable. While she’d not experienced any nausea or sickness during her pregnancy—aside from seasickness—she wrinkled her nose at the bile rising in her throat. 

“Noticed the smell, did you?” asked Merrill. “It used to be a sewer. Or is still a sewer, I’m not sure which. There isn’t really a difference that I can tell.” She continued chattering as they headed for the tiny clinic Anders had set up to help the refugee population in Darktown. Líadan had some lingering resentment at Anders’ sudden departure from their company, but she had to admit he’d done some good work if he’d been offering free or low-cost healing. A gift such as Anders’ truly was priceless, no matter the person he healed. 

One price Líadan didn’t much like was that she had to trek through Darktown to get to him. As they kept walking, the underground section of the city began to close in on her with the same oppressiveness as the Deep Roads. Once the feeling of being in the Deep Roads took her, she fought panic. Even spotting the large gaps in the rock walls that gave Darktown a tantalizing, taunting view of Kirkwall’s harbor didn’t force the panic to abate.

Merrill jumped up and pointed at a lit lantern outside a partially open wooden door. “That’s it right there. Since there’s a light, he’s inside.”

“Thank the Creators,” said Líadan. “I’d rather the Deep Roads next time.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her. “The same Deep Roads where, once we exit, you do a little song and dance number because you’re so grateful that you’re no longer oppressed by the stone? During the Blight, you even danced in the snow.”

She scowled. “I didn’t dance. I ran around happily. There was no dancing.”

“Sounds like frolicking to me,” said Merrill.

Líadan turned her scowl on her friend. So much for clanmates. However, Malcolm did have a good point—she tended to get rather rambunctious once they were free of the Deep Roads. After her first trip there during the Blight, even an exit into a cloudy day with blustery snow and ice was a welcome freedom. Of course, back then, she didn’t talk with Malcolm so much as argue every time they spoke, and neither of them had even an inkling of what the future held in store in regards to the two of them. If they had, they probably would’ve gone running in opposite directions and never looked back.

Now, though, she couldn’t imagine a future without him, no matter how it would make matters easier on the both of them. The very idea of continuing without him gave her the shivers, like someone had cut down the tree marking her grave. 

Thus, the would-be robbers were a welcome distraction. Not having shared in her thoughts, Malcolm cursed under his breath when the man stepped in front of them.

“You lot are dressed quite nicely. I’ll bet you’ve got a nice amount of coin on you, to dress like that,” said the man, his voice hampered by a wheeze. “Now, you give up your coin, and we’ll let you on your way. Put up a fight, and we’ll just loot your corpses afterward. You don’t look like you’re unfamiliar with the idea, considering you’re wearing clothes stolen from dead Grey Wardens.” If the man hadn’t sounded so sickly when he spoke, the burly figure dressed in filthy tatters of clothing would have been somewhat intimidating.

Instead, Líadan was getting annoyed at the delay he presented, and from Malcolm’s sigh, she figured he thought the same.

“Honestly,” said Malcolm. “You’d think the griffons would be a warning, but no.”

More dark figures emerged from the shadows, surrounding their small party. Líadan scowled at what promised to be an even longer delay.

“We’re going to see the healer, Anders,” said Merrill. “So, if you could just let us scoot by, we’ll be—”

“Everyone says they’re going to the healer,” said the man, who shortened his words like Líadan heard from people in Denerim. “If we let everyone who said so go by, we wouldn’t make any coin off travelers. None of you lot look or sound sick and none of your arms or legs are laying on the ground, so I don’t think I’m buying your excuse.” He pointed at Líadan. “And don’t you start pretending you’re in labor or anything. I’ve a wife who’s had four kids, so I know what labor looks like, and you aren’t in it.” He held her gaze, as if he expected an answer. Not until after she shrugged did he continue by addressing the entire group. “So, as I said before, just hand over your coin, and you’ll be on your way, if a little bit lighter in the pocket.”

“Not so much inclined to cooperate,” said Malcolm.

“You’re never one to cooperate,” Líadan said to him.

He grinned over his shoulder as he drew his sword. In full agreement, Líadan quickly pulled out her bow and strung it, which brought a squeal of glee from Merrill. 

“You’re using a bow again! That’s so wonderful! What changed?” Even as she engaged in conversation, Merrill had gotten out her staff and summoned her magic. 

“Everything.” Líadan nocked an arrow and sighted it on the wheezy would-be bandit. “Everything and nothing.” The tingle of Merrill’s magic gave Líadan another fond recollection of her childhood, and it was not unwelcome. Confidence renewed in her archery, Líadan loosed her first arrow, deliberately skimming the ear of the man who’d been addressing them, nicking him just enough to sting—and make her point. 

Malcolm caught her intentions. “In case you were wondering, ser, she didn’t miss. Care to find out what else she can hit?”

“Parlor tricks.” The man sighed. “Too bad. I would’ve preferred not fighting. You lot sound Fereldan. We try to avoid picking on our countrymen, but we need the coin.” Then he whistled, and he and his men and women attacked. 

The skirmish had hardly been joined when shouting came from a suddenly opened door nearby. “You would harm a pregnant woman?” someone shouted. “Really, Fred? Is this what you’ve come to? And to think of all the healing I’ve done for you, and here I find you, in front of my clinic, trying to rob a pregnant woman and her friends.”

“The woman’s incidental,” said Fred. “Besides, she’s put up a good fight. Look at my ear! She hit it! Took the skin right off!” He touched his ear and thrust his fingers toward the newcomer. “See? Blood!”

Had she not been aiming a shot, Líadan would have rolled her eyes. _Really_. Her son had gotten worse injuries than that while trying to walk, and even _he’d_ managed to carry on without whining, even though he was barely a year old. Meanwhile, a grown man was going on about a tiny cut on his ear.

“And I won’t be healing that,” said the not-quite-a-stranger, whom Líadan thought was Anders. With her concentration on their other attackers, she couldn’t check to be sure.

“My stomach’s been rumbling too much lately for me to call this off now,” said one of Fred’s followers.

There was a pause, and another, deeper voice with a strange reverberation that carried across the dank corridor rang out. “You shall not harm an innocent! Leave, or it will be your blood spilled on this ground.”

Due to how the bandits reacted, quickly taking shuffling steps backwards as they covered their eyes from an unworldly glow, Líadan had to chance a look. She glanced over toward where the doors to Anders’ clinic were and saw what looked like Anders. Mostly. It was certainly Anders’ profile, if more gaunt than the last she’d seen of him, but she did recall a distinct lack of blue, unworldly glow coming from his skin. She stared. As she did, the attackers lost their nerve at the show Anders put on, and they ran as soon as they hit the shadows, the leader included.

There was something about the not-Anders voice that seemed familiar, but Líadan couldn’t place it.

Malcolm watched the unsuccessful robbers go with an impressed eye, and then turned to Anders. “That was kind of awesome,” he said. “Except for the part where you glowed. Because _you_ _glowed_. You didn’t do that before; it’s the sort of thing I’d remember. Care to explain?” Though Anders was a friend, or at least had been, Malcolm hadn’t put his sword away.

“There’s something I need to tell you about Sundermount,” said Anders, his eyes moving from the tip of Malcolm’s sword—thankfully still pointed toward the ground—to Malcolm’s eyes.

Creators, thought Líadan, Anders was gaunt, and that was being kind. Anything more than a first, cursory glance told that Anders’ health wasn’t what it used to be. What in Mythal’s name had happened to him?

“What about it?” Malcolm asked. “If it’s about how it’s filled with lyrium, we already know. Oghren told us.”

Anders shook his head, drips of perspiration flinging off the ends of his hair. “No, not that.” He sighed when he realized Malcolm wouldn’t be sheathing his sword. “Remember that statue?”

“The one with the demon?” Malcolm’s sword whipped out and the tip pressed against Anders’ throat. “You could be harboring the demon after Líadan. This—you—could be its final trap to get her. Well, here on Thedas, I can fight you. Rest assured, you won’t be winning today, demon.”

The bluish glow from before took hold under Anders’ skin. Then it cracked and more blue light spilled through until it was nearly blinding in its intensity. A voice spoke from Anders’ mouth, but it was not Anders.

“I am no demon.”

The Líadan remembered where she’d heard the voice before—in her first dream with the sloth demon. She gaped at Anders, wondering exactly how they were connected. “You’re from the Beyond,” she whispered, too wary of the consequences to fling any accusations.

“Oh, dear,” said Merrill. “This hasn’t gone well at all.”


	64. Chapter 64

“The Qun teaches that all living things have a place and a purpose, and only when they are in the correct place and in control of their self may they attain balance. When balance is lost, suffering follows. Mastery of the self is, therefore, the first and greatest duty.”

— _from the writings of the seer of Kont-aar_ , 8:41 Blessed

**Malcolm**

****Malcolm couldn’t rightly believe that within minutes of seeing Anders again after such a long absence, he’d be threatening to kill him. Given how much time he’d had to cool down and think over what happened around when Anders left, he hadn’t thought they’d argue much at all.

Then again, he also hadn’t thought Anders would be possessed. The Anders he had known was stronger than that. Smarter than that.

Wasn’t he?

Didn’t matter now. It wasn’t Anders standing before him, not any longer. It was a demon, and Malcolm knew exactly what to do with demons who dared appeared on this side of the Veil.

As if she’d read his thoughts, Líadan surged forward. “Wait! Stop! Don’t hurt him. Not yet.”

He kept his sword at the ready, but flicked his eyes downward just enough to let her know exactly how puzzled he was by her behavior. “Abomination,” he said for good measure. “Usually you’re slaying them right along next to me.” He jerked his chin toward a place next to him. “Feel free.” Feeling entirely uncomfortable having his sword even vaguely threatening his wife, he dropped his guard.

Líadan didn’t move from where she stood in front of a wide-eyed Anders. “You might want to consider that he might not be an abomination. He’s a spirit healer, like Wynne. He could have the same... issue... as Wynne does.” Behind her, Anders’ eyebrows raced to his hairline at the implication about Wynne, but Líadan went on before he could comment. “Look, whatever spirit’s hiding out in his body, it isn’t all bad. I don’t think.” She frowned. “It saved me.”

With every question that swirled in his mind at what she was saying, and trying to figure out what she was saying, all he could manage was to repeat her words. “Saved you?”

The blue glow in Anders’ skin began to fade, and the expression on Anders’ face became much the familiar bewildered expression Malcolm had known.

Líadan’s eyes scanned around them, searching out any eavesdroppers. Then she sighed. “The first time I encountered the spirit of sloth after me in the Beyond, the struggle was...” She briefly shook her head and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the troubled pain Malcolm had seen almost every morning since that first encounter had reappeared. “I wasn’t winning.” She reached back and pulled Anders forward by the arm. “This spirit appeared—well, he didn’t look like Anders—and chased the demon away.”

“So, it’s benevolent?” Not entirely, though, Malcolm thought. Not after all the threatening it’d done. He did, however, sheathe his sword.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Anders, sounding like himself once more. “It started out like that, I think, but it turned sideways some time afterward.”

“Just how _did_ this start out?” asked Malcolm. “Did you run into him in the Fade? Or did he appear instead of one of the spirits usually associated with healing, and you decided you wanted to spend more time with him?”

Líadan’s brow furrowed in concern at the questions—Malcolm still thought rage or at least anger was the better reaction, but what did he know?—and then she spun to face Anders. “Was it the demon from the statue?”

“Justice isn’t a demon; he’s a spirit,” said Anders, a tiny hint of the spirit’s stronger voice lacing his tone.

“Holy shit,” said Malcolm. “That statue? You said there was a demon bound inside! Demon! I very clearly remember you saying that because you wouldn’t shut up about it when we were descending from Sundermount. How no one should ever go back there, how we should’ve caved in the entrance to those caverns, how no one should ever touch it, because then—you touched it, didn’t you? You went back and did whatever it was you did with it. Communed with it? Whatever. Then you came back and acted like nothing had changed and... now I remember. The next morning, when you were up before sunrise—you were possessed by then.”

“I’m not possessed.” 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. 

“All right, I’m a bit possessed. But Justice hasn’t taken over. We share. Sort of. It’s complicated. Besides, he’s a spirit, not a demon, and there’s a difference.”

“They’re all spirits, actually,” said Merrill. “All of them have the potential to be good or bad.”

“Not really convinced the sloth spirit has the potential to be good,” said Líadan. “I mean, I know that’s what we were taught, but having experienced being the target of a particularly determined ill-intentioned spirit, I’m perfectly willing to name it a demon.”

Merrill shook her head. “You know as well as I do that—”

“Really not the best time for a theology discussion,” said Anders. “Come on, we should go into my clinic if we’re going to continue having conversations like this. Never know what sort of person could be listening in.” Without waiting for spoken agreement, Anders turned and headed back through the doors he’d come through earlier.

After Merrill frowned at Anders’ retreating back, a frown that Malcolm felt the most ineffective frown ever, the rest of them followed. The front room of the clinic was a decent size, tidy, and the linens on the beds clean, though quite worn. Considering the section of the city where the clinic was located, Malcolm was impressed at how not-shabby it was. What also left an impression on him was how shabby Anders had become. The bright mage he’d known had dulled, gaudy Tevinter robes traded in for a proper coat and trousers, sturdy Fereldan boots, and barely any signs of color. The only hint to Anders’ former way of dressing were the feathers on his shoulders, and even they were drab.

“You don’t dress nearly as snazzy as you used to,” said Malcolm, hoping the spirit or demon or whatever it was that shared Anders’ body wouldn’t come back out.

“Turns out the coin isn’t as good healing refugees over killing darkspawn. The Wardens didn’t have many perks—and the retirement is awful—but the steady coin was a plus.” The words were Anders’, his voice, and the sense of humor Malcolm remembered, but it fell flat.

Malcolm did his best to bring out the friend he missed. “Seriously, this isn’t you. You look mundane, all blacks and browns and dingy feathers. Not even a splash of color, aside from some muted green. Does that even count?”

“And you wonder why I left the Wardens?” Anders asked with a raised eyebrow, but absent was the curl of humor on his lips.

It was a serious question. 

“A little bit.” Malcolm paused to let Anders explain, but Anders looked away instead, his fingers twisting the fringe of his ratty coat.

Malcolm sighed. “I just... I thought you would’ve said goodbye, is all. Or talked to me. I would’ve understood if you needed time away from the Wardens. I’m sure Hildur would’ve granted it.”

“It wasn’t anything personal.” Anders shrugged. “I didn’t have time to wait to ask Hildur, so I left.”

“But you returned to the Wardens, I heard.” Their conversation had started out as light as Malcolm could have managed, given the situation, but it was rapidly approaching confrontational, each of their tones hardening with every reply.

“Not by choice.” Anders nearly snapped his answer. “I was a prisoner. Even had a templar jailor. I had to escape.” Justice’s undertone crept in when Anders mentioned the templar.

“Stroud told Hildur in his letter that people died when you escaped.” The old Anders, Malcolm could see killing his way out only if it was a last resort. The old Anders had preferred to slip free of his captors, embarrassing them in the process. Rarely had he killed, darkspawn notwithstanding.

“It was necessary.” Again with the undertone and nearly biting off the words. “They were only templars. There’s no love lost between you and templars.”

Anders was astonishingly right, and at the same time, just as wrong. “There’s no love lost between me and _certain_ templars. They’re people, just like you and me, capable of good or bad, and that capability isn’t automatically determined by their job title. My brother was once a templar, and he’s all right. And remember Ser Ava? You were there to hear the story of how she saved Velanna’s niece from the darkspawn. Maker, Anders, you were there to see exactly what she sacrificed to save that girl.”

“And what of the templars who killed your mabari?”

Before Malcolm could form a coherent reply though the sudden surge of anger, Líadan said, “Oh, that’s just low, Anders.”

“They killed your dog?” asked Merrill. “That’s so sad. I don’t know what I’d do if someone killed Ser Pounce.”

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I just wanted you to understand what it’s like from my point of view, and I went too far.” 

“How did you even know?” asked Malcolm.

“News travels fast, especially to Kirkwall’s population of Fereldan refugees in Darktown. Since the majority of my patients are Fereldans, I keep fairly current on events in Ferelden. But, really, I am sorry I brought it up.” Anders pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning against a table, and then looked over at Líadan. “How are you feeling? Other than tired, because that’s a given.”

“Annoyed and perplexed,” she replied as she crossed her arms.

“You might not believe me, but I was fairly concerned about you. I wasn’t sure how your body would handle pregnancy with you being a Warden.”

“You knew? You knew before you left?”

“I knew on the ship from Ayesleigh to Ostwick. Oisín noticed first and summoned me. He didn’t know if it was possible for a Grey Warden to safely carry a child. I didn’t know, either. There aren’t exactly many precedents.”

“So you knew,” said Líadan, “you were concerned, and you still left?” Though her expression had darkened with anger, her voice held a strain of hurt that was painful to hear. Anders had been their friend, he’d left out of nowhere, and to find out he’d known what had become a huge difficulty for them... Malcolm entirely understood both of Líadan’s reactions.

Anders’ focus returned to the pots he was moving around on the table in front of him. “There were other healers.”

“That’s a shit excuse and you know it,” said Malcolm. “I thought you were our friend.”

“I was! I am! I just had more important things to do. If you could understand and accept the same for Morrigan, why can’t you do the same for me?”

“Because Morrigan never acted wildly out character. She was never a danger to herself. Morrigan was... Morrigan. You? I’m not sure if you’re Anders anymore.”

The simmering anger between Malcolm and Anders sparked back to life, as did the subtle influence of Justice over Anders’ tone. “Maybe you never really knew me.”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

The glow under Anders’ skin began to flare. Anders squeezed his eyes shut and his fists closed. For several moments, said nothing. Then he opened his eyes, and his skin had dimmed to a normal, not-obviously-possessed hue, as had his eyes, and his voice was his once more. “I think we’re in too much a hurry to argue,” he said quietly. “Especially when we all have the same goal—to get rid of this demon after Líadan.”

“Spirit,” said Merrill.

Anders twitched, but managed to refrain from addressing Merrill’s comment. Instead, he kept his gaze on Malcolm and Líadan. “You didn’t leave your son behind in Ferelden with the Seekers there, did you?” He didn’t give either of them a chance to answer as he pressed on. “Because the Royal Guards won’t be able to protect him if the Seekers and the Chantry decide they want him.”

“You and I both know that the safest place on Thedas to hide from the Chantry is within a Dalish clan that doesn’t want to be found. Cáel, his nurse, and his bodyguard are with them.”

“Maker, not with Keeper Marethari’s clan?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I’m not that stupid. No. They’re with the Suriel. We traveled with them to get here.”

“Still a risk, for all of you.”

Líadan finally let out a sigh. “Anders, you asked us to come. You realize I do have your letter? That you wrote?”

“I asked you,” Anders said to her. “Not him.”

“Package deal.” Her arms crossed once again. “There’s no way you didn’t already know that.”

“I had hoped.”

“That’s what’ll get you every time,” said Malcolm.

“That’s not a very bright outlook,” said Merrill. “I thought princes were supposed to be bright. Sebastian is awfully shiny.”

Anders cocked his head to the side. “I think that’s more Sebastian than it is princely. Marian seems to appreciate it, though.” He shook his head, as if erasing the topic, and returned to Malcolm. “So how did you manage to come along? I mean, there isn’t any sort of Chantry uproar with templars or Seekers scouring for you.”

“Hildur told me to recruit while I was out here,” said Malcolm, wondering why there _hadn’t_ been a Chantry uproar when they’d been attacked along the way. “I suppose if we could rustle up those horrid robbers we ran into on the way here, I could ask them. They seem the right kind of person to make a Warden.”

Anders’ brow furrowed. “Hildur? I thought Nathaniel was taking over.”

“He’s... gone. Ish.” Malcolm’s scowl darkened his face again, but he felt none of the anger from before, only annoyance at the subject of Nathaniel’s disappearance and how it kept being blamed on him. As if Nathaniel hadn’t sodding _chosen_ to jump through that eluvian all on his own. Because he had. It wasn’t like Malcolm had pushed him.

“You might have to unpack that one.”

Of course Anders wouldn’t think any differently than anyone else had before when they heard about Nathaniel. “He went with Morrigan.”

“Went with Morrigan where?”

Malcolm shrugged. “To wherever it was she went?” Because he’d be damned if he tried to explain the whole _Setheneran_ thing. Andraste’s ass, if he tried, he’d probably be able to hear Morrigan laughing at him all the way from wherever that sodding place was.

Anders brow had remained furrowed, and would probably stay that way for some time, if he kept Malcolm’s company. “Do you know anything?” 

“No,” Merrill said before Malcolm could, “I wouldn’t say so.”

Líadan laughed softly under her breath as she began to walk around the clinic, examining what Anders had set up.

“Look,” said Malcolm, fixing Anders with a decent frown, “if you want an explanation, you can try to get one out of—you know what, I don’t even know who can explain it properly, aside from Morrigan.”

“I’ll tell you the entire story if you can actually help me kill this demon,” said Líadan.

Anders nodded at her. “Sold. And we should really get to that. Marian volunteered her family estate for the procedure. While the Veil isn’t very thick anywhere in Kirkwall, it’s paper-thin down here in Darktown, Lowtown isn’t much better, and so we’re left with Hightown, hence Marian’s estate. We’ll go meet her there, once my assistant shows up.”

“Assistant? You?” asked Malcolm. Anders had always behind incredibly opposed to be in charge of anyone, even being responsible for teaching other healers. Líadan had been an exception, and not quite a student, and the experiment had failed, anyhow.

“Wasn’t by choice. Feynriel’s nice enough, don’t get me wrong, but I never wanted an apprentice. Assistant. Whatever he is. Shadow, sometimes.” There was a shuffle as one of the thick wooden doors opened so a young man could pass into the clinic, and Anders nodded to indicate him. “Ah, there he is now. Everyone, this is Feynriel. Feynriel, this is Malcolm and Líadan, and you already know Merrill.”

Feynriel looked younger than Malcolm, but Malcolm couldn’t decide if it because the other man _was_ younger than him, or if the other man’s startlingly clear elf-bloodedness made him look younger. Maker’s blood, if Malcolm couldn’t plainly see that Feynriel’s ears were rounded like a human’s, he’d have sworn Feynriel was elven. Maybe Feynriel had a full elven parent and an elven-blooded parent? He had no idea, and he wondered what the answer would mean for his child who’d yet to be born. Would she look so remarkably elven like Feynriel? Or would she turn out very Theirin, like Cáel had? He knew only time would tell, but he couldn’t help but wonder, and impolitely stare. Realizing he’d been rude, he spoke up. “Hello,” he said, and then glanced over at Líadan.

She was staring, but nothing in the way that he’d been. The color had vanished from her cheeks as she kept her eyes on Feynriel. “It’s you,” she said.

Feynriel halted and returned the stare, looking at her like she was a spirit on the wrong side of the Veil. Then he turned as pale as she had. “It’s—” His words stumbled over each other. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I had no idea Torpor would choose you, and then I couldn’t—I’m sorry. Maker, I’m sorry.”

Líadan kept staring. 

Malcolm, however, had questions. “What are you sorry about?”

“So,” Anders said rather loudly, sliding himself in between Malcolm and Feynriel, “it happens that my assistant is what the Dalish call a Dreamer.”

He wasn’t impressed at Anders’ supposed revelation at Feynriel’s ability. It wasn’t like they didn’t all have the same one. “We all dream, Anders,” said Malcolm. “What—” He ended on a sharp exhalation of breath when Líadan’s well-placed elbow hit him in the side, right in the gap behind his cuirass. When he looked over at her, she seemed a lot more frustrated with him than he would’ve thought. Downright angry, really.

“Are you _trying_ to prove your ignorance about magic?” she asked. “Because this is a real thing. Dreamers—actual Dreamers—are rare, but they do appear once in a great while. Before you ask, the big deal about them is that they can do things with the Beyond that no ordinary mage could ever imagine. They can enter the Beyond at will, without lyrium or blood. They can manipulate their own dreams, they can manipulate your dreams, anyone’s dreams, and what they do can, if they choose, affect the other person after they’ve woken from their sleep. Spirits love them, whether good spirits or bad. Bad ones, the demons, tend to hound them. So, now it makes a lot more sense.” Her expression shifted to concern and curiosity as she looked over at the quiet Feynriel. “The sloth demon was after you.”

Feynriel grimaced. “It had been for quite some time. I’m not sure if getting rid of him was good or bad, in the end, because a pride demon took his place.”

“You defeated the pride demon,” said Anders. “Marian and I watched you. Your ability to control your peculiar talent has only gotten stronger since.”

Malcolm glanced back and forth between Anders and his supposed apprentice. “All right, let’s just ignore the fact that Feynriel’s the equivalent of a demon’s tastiest treat when he’s in the Fade, so he’s supposed to avoid getting possessed, and yet his supposed teacher is already possessed,” he said, then paused to settle his gaze on Feynriel. “You can wander anywhere you want in the Fade? Control dreams? Yours and everyone else’s?”

“In time.” For someone with such a remarkable, powerful talent, Feynriel was certainly soft-spoken. “I’m still learning.”

“Right, so. Why not just go back to the Fade and wish this Torpor out of existence?” Malcolm had to admit, Torpor was a fantastic name for a sloth demon.

“It doesn’t work like that, or I already would have,” said Feynriel, who sounded weary enough to have attempted it dozens of times already.

“Your talent hardly seems like the big deal everyone’s made it out to be.” Malcolm’s anger at the demon and Anders trickled into his words directed at an unfortunate Feynriel. He wasn’t angry with the younger man, not really—all right, maybe a little bit for bringing the demon around in the first place—but the surging fear over not being able to help Líadan threatened to overwhelm him again. 

A gentle hand found its way to his forearm, though the voice that accompanied it was definitely scolding. “He said he was still learning,” said Líadan. “You know, like you’re still learning your manners.”

“He’s a long way to go, hasn’t he?” asked Merrill.

The hand on Malcolm’s forearm disappeared as Líadan threw her arm around Merrill’s slim shoulders. “Oh, Merrill, I missed you,” she said. 

“We done with the posturing for now?” asked Anders. “Because we really should be concentrating on getting rid of Torpor instead of whatever mortal tiffs we’ve got going on around here. Once we’re done with the demon, we can go back to our regular arguing.”

“You’ve a plan, then?” asked Líadan. “And by plan, I mean one that’s something beyond ‘go into the Beyond and kill it,’ because I could’ve attempted that in Ferelden and not traveled as long and far as I have, not to mention gone so long without proper sleep.”

Anders glanced down at his hands and cleared his throat. “Well, to be honest, that’s the crux of the plan. Except here we’ve got Feynriel and we’ve got Justice.”

“Has no one asked Emrys?” asked Merrill. “He would help. He’d be very good at—”

“No,” said Líadan. “Emrys doesn’t know, and he isn’t to know.”

Malcolm glanced over at the two women long enough to see Merrill give Líadan a look that said she didn’t believe Emrys ignorant of the situation at all, but Merrill’s verbal reply mentioned nothing of it. “All right, then.”

Pacing the clinic as he did, Anders went over the plan he and Feynriel had concocted as they waited for Líadan to arrive. The basic premise, as Malcolm gathered, was rather simple. Go into the Fade and kill the demon. Except they’d be using Feynriel to get things in the Fade arranged how they wanted them, and when Anders went through the ritual to send himself into the Fade, it would be Justice in control, once there. Justice was incredibly powerful in the Fade, considering it was where he belonged. Between Feynriel and Justice and Líadan’s strength of will, they believed they could defeat a sloth demon without a tremendous amount of difficulty.

Malcolm would believe that when he saw it, which he believed would be never. Trips to the Fade never went how you wanted them, and fights with demons never ended how you intended. The poor odds did nothing to discourage trying, however, and Malcolm had a feeling that everyone desperately wanted to do exactly that—try. They wanted to win, of course, but felt compelled to try, at the very least. He did his best to feel the same compulsion, but still couldn’t manage it. Every time he tried, the fear slithered right back inside his chest, stealing his breath like a frosty winter’s morning.

“Are you all right with the plan, such as it is?” Malcolm asked Líadan as Anders showed them the far too incredibly convenient shortcut to the Amell estate sitting right outside his clinic.

She shrugged. “It’s a little too late if I wasn’t.”

“It’s never too late to put a stop to it. We can turn around and go home right now.” He frowned and glanced around them, waiting for Anders to jimmy open the hidden door, wondering at what hid in the shadows. “Well, maybe not _right_ now. Might be better to wait until we got to Hightown.”

“If we go home, I’d like it to be with the demon dead, thank you.”

Not a particularly enthusiastic endorsement, but an answer nonetheless. They wouldn’t be returning to Ferelden today.

Merrill led them up a few dubious flights of stairs, chattering the entire way. “I don’t know how much Bethany has told you, but Hawke—that’s Bethany’s sister, Marian, we call her Hawke a lot, but don’t ask me why when her proper name is Marian—lives here with her mother, Leandra. Oh, also her mabari, and they’ve a manservant and his boy around here somewhere. I think she just collects people, but don’t tell her I said that. She frowns at me when I do.”

The edges of a sound scolding drifted down into the storage room they had just entered from below. Though Malcolm knew his mother—Teyrna Eleanor, the one who had raised him—dead and gone, he could have sworn it was her doing the scolding. Whoever it was on the receiving end, they were getting a rather serious tongue-lashing. He didn’t envy them.

“That sounds like Leandra,” said Merrill. “I wonder why she’s so cross?”

The older woman was cross enough that she didn’t notice their approach behind her, continuing with her scolding of her two daughters. Malcolm assumed the woman standing with Bethany was her sister—the similarities in coloring and shape of face were too strong to deny. Malcolm sympathized, sharing the same problem with Alistair. 

Bethany stared at the ground, but when Marian saw them walking up to them, she nudged Bethany in the side with her elbow. Then both of them made various subtle signals to not say anything as their mother continued. As Leandra Hawke went on—and on—Malcolm realized he’d finally found someone better at scolding than Wynne, something he’d long believed impossible. Immediately, he felt awful for Bethany and Marian, and possibly Carver, though from what Bethany had to say, Carver might’ve deserved all he’d gotten. Then again, it seemed that Carver was the subject, not the target. Something about his being a templar and not deserving to be ignored.

“Normally,” Merrill whispered, “Lady Amell is very nice.”

“I’m sure,” Malcolm whispered back.

“Does she even know we’re here?” asked Líadan. 

Merrill shook her head. “Probably not. Usually, she’s unfailingly polite. To ignore us, you two especially, would be rude.”

“And neither Bethany nor Marian have been able to get a word in edgewise,” said Malcolm.

“It’s a lot like living with a Theirin,” said Líadan. 

Malcolm scowled at her while Merrill giggled behind her hand. Leandra Hawke still didn’t notice their presence. It either showed a dreadful lack of situational awareness, or an exceptional ability at concentration. He wasn’t sure which it was.

“All right, Mother,” Marian said after heaving a sigh. “We’ll ask Carver to help.”

“He _is_ a templar,” said Leandra.

It was Bethany’s turn to sigh. “So you’ve said, Mother.”

“And finally, you listen. Go find your brother, get his aid. Even your father would have never agreed to do something like this without a trusted templar present. You never know what will happen. You never know what will go wrong. You never want to be what hurts your loved ones, should something go bad.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Marian.

Leandra clasped her hands. “Now, I will continue to prepare for our guests. I’ve never entertained a royal before. I honestly never thought I would have, after marrying your father. I wonder—”

“I’m not sure he’ll need to be entertained,” said Marian. “Distracted, maybe. And you’ve entertained royalty here before, Mother. Or does Sebastian not count?”

“Until he decides if he’s staying in the Chantry or retaking Starkhaven, he’s a Chantry brother, as far as I’m concerned.”

“He can’t be much a Chantry brother if he’s talking marriage,” said Bethany.

“Chaste,” Marian said under her breath.

Bethany’s head whipped around to face her sister. “What?”

“Chaste,” Marian said again, putting more frustration in it. “Chaste marriage. His idea, not mine.”

Leandra briefly covered her mouth with her fingers. “Oh, dear. I daresay someone will have to sit him down and explain how princes need heirs and how those come about.”

Marian leaned against the hallway wall and groaned. “Mother. _Mother_. You will be the death of me, I swear it. Please don’t speak with Sebastian about... any of this. Actually, you know what, please don’t speak with Sebastian at all. Chances are you’ll not-so-subtly slip in the subject of heirs and I’ll be mortified.”

“Heirs don’t just make themselves—”

“Mother!” Marian straightened and began to stalk toward what Malcolm assumed was the front of the estate. “I’m going to find Carver. Bethany’s coming with me. You go do... whatever it is you do.”

Leandra Hawke bustled past her daughters and down the hall, leaving Marian and Bethany facing the group who’d finishing coming up the stairs and entering the main part of the estate. “Thank you for not telling my mother you’d arrived,” Marian said to them. “I think she would just die.” She pursed her lips and pressed a finger on them briefly. “Then again, maybe you should. Then she’d let these Sebastian issues go, at least for a little while.”

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Malcolm found himself saying before he realized it. 

“Oh, I know. I know! That’s what makes it so awful! She’s so terribly _right_ and she knows it and ugh.” Marian threw her hands in the air in a gesture of giving up. “It isn’t like I haven’t tried explaining this to him, like I’m not dying myself because it’s been so long that—” She halted, belatedly realizing she hadn’t actually been introduced to the persons she had nearly divulged very personal information to. “I’m sorry, I forgot to actually greet you like a civilized person. Marian Hawke,” she said, and clasped hands with each of them in turn. “Some people call me Hawke, for reasons I can’t figure out, unless they just like to follow Varric’s example, and others call me Marian. I really don’t care which one you use. Now, what I’d really like to hear about are the people who put up with my little sister.”

“I think Bethany’s taller than you, Hawke,” said Merrill. 

“Metaphorical, Merrill,” said Marian.

“Malcolm,” said Malcolm, having decided on continuing with introductions, or they’d never get around to actually killing the demon.

Marian grinned. “Oh, skipped the last name, did you? What, did you think that by leaving it off I’d forget you’re a Theirin? Not with that nose, I wouldn’t. Definitely not when paired up with the hair and the height, and I’m not sure how you made it through Lowtown and Darktown without being mobbed—in both good and bad ways. Some of the refugees are understandably a bit bitter.”

“That would explain the sulking stares,” said Malcolm.

“Better sulking stares than being sized up by a pickpocket,” Marian said as she extended a hand to Líadan. “And you look lovely.”

“Líadan. And everyone says that. I think they’re just saying it because it’s what you say to pregnant women.”

“Yes, but I mean it. It’s a good thing Isabela isn’t here or she’d be making outrageous comments. And touching. And flirting. And more touching, most likely with an added side of groping.”

“We’ve met Isabela,” said Malcolm.

Marian nodded. “So you understand. Well, you needn’t worry. Isabela is... not here. I’m not sure—still—where she went, but here she is not and has not been here for weeks. But continuing to talk about her disappearance will put me in a nasty mood, so let’s not talk about it. Merrill, you should stay here, help Mother or something, because we have to go to the Gallows to fetch Carver.”

“I don’t like looking at the sad statues, anyway,” said Merrill.

“It’s more like they’re looking at you,” said Líadan. 

Bethany grinned. “Sod the statues, I’m excited about being able to go up there and skip around the whole place, if I wanted, and Knight-Commander Meredith can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Marian stopped from giving Merrill more detailed instructions on how they were preparing for their venture to the Fade later, in favor of staring at her sister. “I will give you ten sovereigns if you skip across the entire Gallows yard.”

“Done,” said Bethany.

While Bethany was excited about returning to the Gallows so quickly, Malcolm had to keep from literally dragging his feet. The looming, tortured statues bothered him, as did the idea that mages were kept locked away in a building more dangerous than Ferelden’s Kinloch Hold. It seemed like the templars reveled in the idea of the thin Veil at the Gallows, instead of finding ways to strengthen the Veil and then fixing it. Sure, in Kinloch Hold, the Veil had been sundered during the Blight, but the templars and mages had worked together afterward to repair it. Even there, the Veil was stronger than what the mages told him of the Gallows. The whole place felt wrong, and he didn’t want to go.

“We’re going to get your brother, right?” Líadan asked Bethany as they walked down yet another set of stone steps.

Bethany nodded. “Mother said we need a templar who isn’t as emotionally close to the situation as Malcolm is.”

It was a fair point, but Malcolm grimaced as he patiently informed them that he wasn’t _actually_ a templar.

Líadan frowned. “Couldn’t you just send a note for him?”

“We could,” said Marian.

“And then he’d ignore it,” said Bethany. “And then play the victim about not being asked to come along and help his family.”

Líadan turned her frown over toward the island in the middle of the harbor. “His own fault for working in a place called the Gallows.”

“I like her,” said Marian. “Remind me to tell Anders that if she gets hurt, I’ll have his balls. Or Justice’s balls.” She furrowed her brow as she considered it. “Does Justice even have balls? No matter. I assume he’ll get the point.” She snapped her fingers. “Speaking of Anders, Malcolm, I have a question.”

He had a pretty good idea about the subject of her question, given what he’d found out earlier that day, but played along. “Go on.”

“Did you know?”

Well, there were a lot of things he could’ve known about regarding Anders, he thought as they walked past the Qunari compound near the docks. He peeked inside, doing his best to ignore the frown the qunari guard sent his way, and again could’ve sworn he saw Sten. Then again, Sten’s name wasn’t really a name, it was a position, and Malcolm was sure there were plenty of stens amongst the qunari. He kept his observation to himself, and still hadn’t come up with an answer about Anders. “Know what?” he asked Marian.

“About his... guest.”

“Oh, that. Not until about an hour ago.”

It wasn’t until they’d boarded the ferry and stood in a small clump at the prow that she resumed her line of questioning. “Would you have killed him, if you’d known before?”

Malcolm did his best to ignore how green Líadan turned, and not because of seasickness, either. If he’d known back then, known that they’d spent months in the company of a man possessed by a spirit—a demon?—possessed by something that did not belong to their mortal world, would he have acted? Done what was necessary to stop an abomination from forming? He didn’t think he could with Líadan because she was _Líadan_ , but Anders was far from that. He wasn’t a lover or a best friend or the mother of his child; he was Anders. A man who’d once been their friend but had left the lot of them without a word of farewell. A man who’d known Líadan’s condition and never thought to mention it to them before he left. A man who’d stupidly gone back up Sundermount to speak with whatever spirit he’d spoken with after telling them all to never return. “Yes,” he finally said out loud.

“So you understand,” said Marian. 

He narrowed his eyes. “Understand what?”

“What might be necessary, should things go wrong. You won’t get in the way.”

“Hadn’t planned on it.” He wasn’t sure if Marian was talking about Anders or Líadan, and he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know. He didn’t want to know because he wasn’t certain he’d get out of the way should it be Líadan. He just couldn’t see that sort of future or possibility when it came to her. The idea scared him, a tide of stark, cold fear, but he couldn’t visualize it beyond that. Tranquility and abomination were both hugely frightening concepts, and that’s all he needed. He wouldn’t let either one happen.

Marian fell silent as they approached the docks at the Gallows, and Líadan leaned against him briefly, a reminder that she was alive and well, and he should remember that.

In the Gallows courtyard, they’d barely passed through the gate when they caught sight of a well-armored woman sweeping across the yard. She managed to close half the distance to them by the time they’d walked just a short way from the gate, though Malcolm was certain that his dragging feet hadn’t helped. Every step the woman took seemed propelled by energy, purpose, and power. Her presence far outstripped anything Ser Renaud, the former Knight-Vigilant of the Chantry, had ever possessed. 

She reminded him of Flemeth, in how her presence projected her power, and in how her eyes seemed to see everything, both what was on the surface, and what was below, in your soul. As the woman continued to march toward them, Malcolm said his thought out loud, though quietly. 

“Sweet Maker, you’re right,” said Marian.

“I dare you to say that to her face, sister,” said Bethany.

“No. Absolutely not. I’d like to stay alive today, thank you. I’ll take up your dare when I have a death wish.” The woman reached speaking distance, and Marian attempted to address her. “Lovely to see you, Knight-Commander Meredith.”

Malcolm wondered why this Knight-Commander hadn’t been made Knight-Vigilant instead of Renaud or whoever his replacement was. This was the sort of power people would have trouble rebelling against—the kind that made you quake in your shoes before you even knew why.

“Watch your step, Wardens,” she said, ignoring Marian’s greeting to focus on Malcolm, Líadan, and Bethany. “The Order might allow Grey Warden mages to walk freely, but we need not tolerate maleficar nor abominations.”

“As a rule, neither do the Wardens,” said Malcolm. Well, abominations, anyway. Their rules about blood magic differed vastly, but the Chantry definitely did not need to know that.

Meredith sneered at him. “You will quickly conduct your Grey Warden business in Kirkwall, and then leave. Seeker Cassandra sent me a missive ahead of your arrival. You are to return to Denerim as soon as you are done here, or I will be allowed to take whatever action I believe prudent.” Her eyes, the same bright blue as a lyrium potion, quickly pinned Líadan. “We wouldn’t want to find out what would happen should a demon possess a mage with child, would we?”

As Líadan grasped at some sort of response, standing stock-still in her shock at the question, Malcolm asked the Knight-Commander, “What is wrong with you?”

Lucky enough for them, Meredith did not seem to take offense. She merely stood up straighter, and faced Malcolm without so much as blinking. “Someone has to think of these things, so as to be prepared for the inevitable.”

“You mean prepared for the worst,” he said. It wasn’t inevitable that the sloth demon would win out. It wasn’t. He refused to acknowledge it.

“With mages, the worst is the inevitable. It would do you well to remember that, lest you abandon your vigilance.”

His fear turned to fuel for anger, for how this templar’s words threatened him, threatened Líadan, and he clenched his fists in an effort to stop himself from resorting to violence. “I remember—”

Marian quick-stepped in between the two of them, cutting him off. “We’re here to see my brother, Knight-Commander,” she said to Meredith, and managed to fling a glare in Malcolm’s direction while she was at it. “That’s all. The Grey Wardens have requested the aid of a templar.”

As if she hadn’t started a confrontation with Malcolm at all, Meredith’s tone dropped the implied threats and turned to business. “If it is a templar’s aid you require, I would prefer you approach my Knight-Captain. Ser Hawke is barely into his knighthood, as well you know. I imagine Knight-Captain Cullen would find more success against the darkspawn who wield magic, rather than a newly-minted knight.”

“They’re called emissaries,” said Malcolm. Then he caught the slight curl of irritation at the edge of Meredith’s lips, and remembered that he needed to not antagonize this woman, lest he find himself jailed, or Líadan or their apostate friends taken prisoner in the Gallows. “And you’re right, the more experienced the templar, the better. We believe there’s more than one emissary directing darkspawn activity near Sundermount, and all of our former templar Wardens are currently in Ferelden.”

Meredith raised an eyebrow. “What of you?”

He blinked. “Me? I’m not Chantry-trained. That’s my brother. I’m certain we could attempt to remove the emissaries on our own, if the Chantry feels it cannot render assistance, but—”

“We will assist. Our duty is to protect Thedas from dangerous magic. I will assign my Knight-Captain to aid you for the duration of your mission. You may speak with him now, if you wish. And if you need him immediately, you may take him. I can make the arrangements.” She made as if to turn and walk away, but stopped long enough to lean in closer to Líadan. “Do not forget my warning, Warden. Do not forget your vigilance, should you wish to prevent the unspeakable from occurring.” Then Meredith did turn on her heel and walk away from them, marching just as she had toward them. 

They watched her go, and not until she was out of earshot did any of them speak. “She thinks Cullen will be her spy,” said Marian.

That much was clearly obvious, thought Malcolm. Any templar so readily volunteered and offered up to the Wardens was most certainly a Chantry spy. “ _I_ think Cullen will be her spy.”

“You haven’t met him, though. He’s Fereldan, not a Marcher. He—”

“I’ve met him.” Malcolm interrupted Marian with his revelation, but he didn’t care. He’d only just put it together, that this Cullen could be the templar they’d found alive and trapped and mercilessly tortured for days on end by demons in the upper levels of Kinloch Hold during the Blight. The young templar who’d seemed to be on the edge of losing his mind, and understandably so. The same templar who’d cried out for the deaths of all mages.

“Not sure you have,” said Marian, “not if you’ve got that tone of voice about him. He hasn’t turned me in, after all.”

He stared. “You’re a mage? Bethany never mentioned it.”

“I am, but I hide it.” She shrugged. “Apostate and all. I put it into my sword, for the most part, and foist it off as runic enchantments. Bodahn’s son Sandal conveniently does enchantments. Dwarf, so lyrium doesn’t get to him. It works out.”

“Sandal?” asked Líadan. “Because a dwarf named Sandal with a merchant father named Bodahn used to work at Highever.”

“We were talking about Cullen,” said Malcolm, wishing his companions felt the same panicked urgency he felt when it came to the templar supposedly aiding them.

“Cullen’s fine, I promise,” said Marian.

“You don’t know him like I do.” Malcolm knew it would mean a death sentence for Líadan. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped it was a different Cullen than who he thought it would be. “Maybe it isn’t him. I mean, I met a templar with the name of Cullen during the Blight, under inauspicious circumstances. So, it could be the same one. Might not.”

“He’s right over there, actually.” Bethany pointed partway across the courtyard, where a tall, ginger-haired templar spoke with Meredith. “She’s probably telling him his new assignment right now. He doesn’t look pleased.”

And he didn’t. And he wasn’t. And he was definitely the same templar they’d come across at Kinloch Hold, just a little older, a little more experienced, and in a position with a lot more power.


	65. Chapter 65

“In the 83rd year of the Glory Age, one of the mages of the Nevarran Circle was found practicing forbidden magic. The templars executed him swiftly, but this brewed discontent among the Nevarran Circle. The mages mounted several magical attacks against the templars, vengeance for the executed mage, but the knight-commander was unable to track down which were responsible.

Three months later, the mages summoned a demon and turned it loose against their templar watchers. Demons, however, are not easily controlled. After killing the first wave of templars who tried to contain it, the demon took possession of one of its summoners. The resulting abomination slaughtered templars and mages both before escaping into the countryside.

The Grand Cleric sent a legion of templars to hunt the fugitive. They killed the abomination a year later, but by that time it had slain seventy people.

Divine Galatea, responding to the catastrophe in Nevarra and hoping to prevent further incidents, granted all the grand clerics of the Chantry the power to purge a Circle entirely if they rule it irredeemable. This Right of Annulment has been performed seventeen times in the last seven hundred years.”

—from _Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry_ , by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

**Malcolm**

Malcolm swore at realizing their entire trip had been for nothing because of the templar chosen to replace their request for Carver. “We may as well turn around and go home. We’d have better luck with Knight-Commander Greagoir, provided we can get him out of the Tower.”

Marian dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Oh, Cullen always looks like that. A strange combination of tired, shocked, and constipated. He’s not so bad, outside the Gallows, anyway. I mean, he does know that I’m a mage. If he were a stickler like Meredith, I’d be in the Gallows, and yet I’m not.”

“If he were a stickler like Meredith, you’d be Tranquil or dead,” said Bethany.

“You have a point.”

“Not making me feel much better,” said Líadan. “I’m still not sure I’m all right with having a templar there at all. The only reason I even provisionally agreed was because Carver is your brother. Cullen, unless there’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t your brother.”

“Maker, I hope not,” Bethany said under her breath. “I’d have some thoughts to answer for.”

Marian turned from observing Cullen to get a good look at Líadan, who’d paled under Meredith’s scrutiny, and hadn’t yet regained her color. “Here, let me put it to you this way: I would’ve chosen Cullen over Carver in the first place. Meredith is right—Carver is really new at this. Cullen’s been doing this for ages, and I’ve witnessed him use discretion instead of just killing indiscriminately. He knows what to do when it’s necessary, and will do it when necessary, but he doesn’t get all into it like a lot of the overzealous templars do.”

Malcolm glanced back and forth between the now-approaching Cullen and the very earnest Marian. “If I wasn’t looking at him, myself, I’d swear we were talking about two completely different people.”

“You’re going to have to tell me how you met him during the Blight,” said Marian. “Especially since you think so poorly of him.”

“Not him personally. Considering what he’d gone through, it’s admirable his mind remained intact at all.”

Bethany cleared her throat. “Hello, Knight-Captain,” she called out, and then raised her hand in both greeting to Cullen and a warning to others that he could now hear them.

The templar inclined his head. “Bethany. You look well. It would seem the life of a Grey Warden suits you.”

To Malcolm’s surprise, Bethany smiled and then blushed in return. Were the situation not growing rapidly more dire, he would’ve found a way to tease her. Instead, he waited for evidence that this Cullen, who looked exactly like the Cullen he’d come across at Kinloch Hold, was not of the same mindset. That Cullen had believed them all controlled by dead blood mages, or possessed by dormant demons ready to awaken and slay everyone in their path. That particular Cullen would be of no use to them with the sloth demon. He’d just as soon kill Líadan and be on his way. But Marian had to know that, so Malcolm did his best not to despair at their circumstance.

When Bethany failed to speak again, Cullen turned his attention to Marian. “Knight-Commander Meredith informed me that you require my aid.”

“To be honest, I was coming to ask Carver for his help, but Meredith had other ideas,” she said. “Equally as honestly, I believe you’re a better choice than my brother, but my friends here believe differently. Malcolm says you’ve met before, during the Blight.”

A light flush spread across Cullen’s cheeks. “Ah, yes. Under rather inauspicious circumstances. Suffice to say that it was during the blood mages’ takeover of Kinloch Hold, when the Grey Wardens helped end it. We met then. I was not at my best.”

“Neither was I,” Malcolm found himself saying.

Their conversation didn’t improve from there as Marian led the small group back to her estate. Though the man who walked with them seemed even-keeled, Malcolm couldn’t get the memory of a Cullen from the Blight who’d practically been stark-raving mad. Not that Malcolm didn’t stand in a place to be casting much judgement—he hadn’t been the shining picture of rational back then, either. 

Maybe neither of them had any business dealing with either side of a quest to kill a demon in the Fade, but the demon and the circumstances gave them no choice.

“Out of curiosity,” Cullen asked as they ascended the steps to Hightown, “are we truly going to slay darkspawn emissaries, or is it something different?”

“When it comes to anything involving me, is it ever what you’re told at first, Cullen?” asked Marian.

“Yes—no, actually. No.”

“We need you to keep a vigil,” said Malcolm. It was a struggle to get out, and not because of the emotional heaviness of it, but because he was starting to run short on breath. The stairs were getting to him. There were so many. Why had the Tevinters decided to built up and up like this? It made no sense, just like how the city was laid out. And he had definitely caught the rejuvenation spells Bethany had tossed Líadan’s way on the sly. Líadan glared each time, but Bethany pretended to ignore her unspoken objections. Wynne would have been proud.

Cullen frowned at Malcolm, seeming not out of breath at all despite wearing heavy templar armor. “There are Chantry priests and laypeople who are better at that sort of thing.”

“Not that kind of vigil,” said Marian. “Look, Anders is going to tell everyone what his plan is at the same time so that he doesn’t have to repeat himself. You can find out the whole thing then.”

Cullen sighed. “Fine.”

At the Amell estate, they were greeted at the door by a dwarf who looked familiar to Malcolm, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen him before. While he tried to figure out who the dwarf was before he embarrassed himself, he took note of the large, two-handed sword hanging from a weapon rack placed close to the door. The well-used, but well cared-for weapon hadn’t been there when they’d left.

“Sisters,” a dark-haired young man said when they entered the next room. His arms were crossed over the Templar Order emblem on his chest.

“Hello, Carver,” said Bethany. “Did Mother send for you?”

The first thing Malcolm noticed about Bethany’s twin brother was that he was tall. He was also burly and rather strapping and seemed the sort who loved to wave around a two-handed sword, a sword of the like Malcolm had seen just inside the entryway. Carver easily had inches on him and Cullen both, and probably more muscle, too, and Maker’s _breath_ , what did they feed him?

He also looked angry, which Bethany had insisted more than once was Carver’s standard emotional state, but to Malcolm, Carver seemed beyond the standing around mad-at-the-world sort of angry. As in, Carver had targets for his anger and Malcolm truly hoped he wasn’t one of them, because unless he ran really fast, he doubted he’d come out on top if it came to blows.

“Did you really think you’d be leaving me out of this?” Carver asked, not even bothering to greet the newcomers. “First you stick your nose in everything, including what should remain Grey Warden business, because you have to save _everyone_ , and then you think—”

Marian grabbed him by the arm and hauled him toward a side room. “Excuse us, everyone. This should only be a moment.”

“Let me go!” Carver shouted at his sister.

“If you want me to let you go, then you go ahead and make me, you jackass. Go ahead. Hit me. No? Then shut up.”

Bethany gave the others a shrug of apology and followed her two siblings into what Malcolm presumed was a library of sorts, given the shelves of books he’d seen through the briefly opened door. Then it closed, whereupon the argument resumed, but muffled enough that they couldn’t make out the words. Which was, Malcolm realized, just as well.

“You know,” said Líadan, humor almost touching her eyes, “that reminded me of a certain trio of brothers I know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Malcolm ignored Líadan’s near-chuckle in favor of turning to Cullen. “Shouldn’t you be stopping that fight since Carver’s a templar of yours?”

Cullen made no move to intervene. “No. It’s an argument between siblings. If anyone intervenes, it should be Lady Amell. If not her, you could assume responsibility, if you wanted, since they might still count as your subjects.”

“My subjects? You mean my brother’s, not mine. I don’t have any subjects.”

“He can’t even knight anyone,” said Merrill, who’d eagerly met them at the door with Bodahn.

“I know,” came Anders’ voice as he entered the room, Feynriel trailing quietly behind him. “It’s quite sad, isn’t it? You think a royal would have a lot of power, but it turns out they really don’t. Not from what I’ve witnessed, anyway.” He gave a nod toward the Knight-Captain. “Cullen.”

He nodded back. “Anders. You look tired. Does your clinic require anything? I know lyrium potions would be the most useful item for you, but I’m afraid that’s beyond my ability to procure without raising suspicion.”

“And since I doubt you could find a way to make the days longer so that I could sleep more, I don’t think there’s anything else. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you think of anything.” If Malcolm wasn’t mistaken, there was a _slight_ twitch of humor on Cullen’s mouth. “So long as it’s not helping to free mages from the Gallows.”

Malcolm couldn’t help gaping as he looked between Anders and Cullen. This was not the same templar he’d come across during the Blight. He couldn’t be. “You mean you’ve known Anders was a mage?” 

Cullen gave him an incredulous look. “Anders was educated at Kinloch Hold, where I was posted since gaining my knighthood. Of course I knew he was a mage. However, he does good things in Darktown, where not enough good things are done. So, as long as he continues to do said things, I will not interfere. That is how I treated his situation before better resolution came through, when Warden Commander Hildur sent her official letter to Knight-Commander Meredith, the gist of which was that the templars were not to lay a finger on him.”

“Because I’m recruiting,” said Anders. “Not that I’m doing a fantastic job of it.”

“You are if they’re invisible recruits.” Malcolm considered the idea, wondering if there were a spell that could make it possible. “Actually, that would be kind of awesome.”

Cullen had not relented with his incredulous look fixed on Malcolm. He went to ask another question, but was interrupted by Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell, sweeping into the room, offering apologies as soon as she had the group in sight. Then Malcolm realized she was speaking directly to him, and not quite the others, when she curtseyed. “My apologies for not greeting you at the door, Your Highness, but Bodahn just informed me you’d arrived, and—”

 _Maker_. The day just kept getting more uncomfortable as it went on. It wasn’t like they were in the royal court or in public or even in Ferelden. “You can just call me Malcolm,” he said. “Really, it’s fine. At best, the circumstances are odd, so it’s better we’re all on a first-name basis.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but the small smile she gave him was genuine. “If you insist. You may call me Leandra. Make yourself at home in our home. Is your lovely companion one of the heroes of the Blight I’ve heard so much about? Merrill has spoken of you, if you’re the Líadan she’s talked about.” The smile she graced Líadan with wasn’t filled with much of the disdain Malcolm normally saw from the nobility. There was something, a stilted disconcertedness that slightly tinged her interactions, but it was small. It seemed her exposure to the sorts of friends her elder daughter kept had done a lot of work in ridding her of most of her prejudices.

“I am,” said Líadan, who returned the smile. “Thank you for allowing us to use your home.”

“You’re most welcome. Now, have you all eaten? Orana has prepared food for everyone to make sure you’re all nourished enough for your ritual. It’s dangerous enough as it is, so no one needs faint from hunger.”

“I did miss the midday meal,” said Cullen.

“Then come with me, young man.” Leandra took him by the arm. “The rest of you, please join us when you can.”

After the pair had left the room, Anders said quietly, “He doesn’t know about my passenger, as it were.”

“Of course he doesn’t, seeing as you aren’t dead,” said Líadan. “And I take it he doesn’t know about Merrill’s talent, since she’s equally not as dead?”

“And what about Feynriel?” asked Malcolm. “Marian said he was at the Gallows for a while before a templar helped him escape.”

“Ser Thrask reported back that I was dead,” Feynriel said in a soft tone. It seemed the young man always spoke that way, yet it didn’t sound weak. Quiet, but even and confident, only occasionally venturing into uncertainty. Malcolm hoped the confidence wasn’t false bravado and had real will and ability behind it. Otherwise, he was fairly certain they were screwed. Not that the entire plan, whatever it was, didn’t already have a high chance of failing.

Malcolm pointed at Feynriel, and then at the door where Cullen had gone with Leandra. “Right, but Knight-Captain Cullen just saw you, in the flesh, very not dead.”

“He knows Feynriel is being taught by a Harrowed mage,” said Anders. “It would work the same way in a Circle, except with more templar supervision. While the lack of templar supervision bothers him, he hasn’t reported it. If he hasn’t reported it yet, I doubt he will. We’ll remain vigilant, and always have an escape plan ready, but it isn’t necessary. Yet.”

“Still not entirely convinced,” said Líadan. “He’ll be there when we’re all unconscious, watching to see if we go down the same path as Velanna. If he’s the twitchy sort—”

“He was definitely the twitchy sort during the Blight,” said Malcolm.

Anders glared at him over Líadan’s head. “Not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to. We have to trust this man with your lives while you’re in the Fade. We have to rely on his judgement about whether or not you’ve been taken by a demon. How are we supposed to know if he’s reacting to something he _thinks_ he sees and not something he _does_ see? What if I intervene, what if I stop him from acting, and it turns out he was right? Then there’ll be an abomination running around. But then what if I don’t stop him and he’s wrong and one or all of you will be dead because of it? What if—”

“Other than Alistair,” said Anders, “is there even a single templar you’d trust with this?”

He wanted to say there was, but it wouldn’t have been an honest statement. “No.”

“Then are your objections because of the templar who’s going to help, or are they because we’re about to engage in a fight that you’re almost completely unfamiliar with?”

“Both! They’re both shaky in the first place, and combined, they don’t make it better. Ser Cullen was—”

Anders’ skin took on the glowing blue hue, and the other voice spoke out. “The templar is equitable. He will not be unjust.”

 ****“Put him away!” said Merrill.

The door to the library slammed open, and Carver stalked out, his frustration crackling around him. It served to distract well enough, and by the time the young templar had slammed the estate’s door behind him, Justice had disappeared. 

“That went well,” said Bethany.

“You know, I always thought you were exaggerating about Carver,” Malcolm said to her. “If anything, I think you’ve underplayed it.”

Marian sighed. “Carver has... issues. Something about shadows. No, being in my shadow and wanting to be out of it or something like that. He wants his own place in the world and feels like he can’t do that because of me and my... actually, I’m not sure why he thinks I cast such a big shadow, but he really, really doesn’t want to be in it.” She clapped her hands together. “Are we ready to get things going?”

“Not yet,” said Anders. “We’re waiting on Andraste-crotch.”

Malcolm stared at him. “Andraste-what?”

“Sebastian,” Bethany said as she stepped in between Marian and Anders, as the former had raised her hand and was heading to maim the latter. “He’s one of the brothers at the Chantry. Happens to be a prince.”

“Oh, that Sebastian. Merrill mentioned him earlier, something about he can’t knight cats, either.”

Marian scowled at Bethany, and then insisted they all move to the dining room while they waited, because her mother would be dreadfully upset if the food got wasted. Food which, once Malcolm dug in, he realized people should weep if it went uneaten. It was wonderful and he hoped the feast wouldn’t end, and not just because it would mean no journey into the Fade for any of them. As he started in on his third piece of bread—it might have been a fourth; he wasn’t keeping close count—Merrill asked, “How is Meghan doing in Ferelden?”

“Meghan, who?” he asked around his bite.

“Vael! Sebastian’s sister. We sent her your way. Well, Varric and Isabela sent her your way, to Denerim.” Merrill kept going, either oblivious to or ignoring Marian’s frantic motions for her to shut up. “She wasn’t thrilled about going. She said she wouldn’t like Ferelden, too wet and cold. I never thought it very cold, but it did rain an awful lot. I was wondering how she ended up doing.”

“My sister is in Ferelden?” came a strong voice from the doorway, one possessing the same cadence as Meghan’s.

Malcolm slowly turned around to see specifically why Marian had been so frantic for Merrill to be quiet—Sebastian Vael. Given the brogue, coupled with the face of Andraste carved into the buckle of his sword belt, and Malcolm couldn’t think of anyone else it could be. Maker, he really did look like a shiny prince. Well, like what people imagined proper princes to look like, which coincidentally, looked nothing like Malcolm and Alistair. Ferelden did not turn out shiny princes like the Free Marches did.

“Er, yes?” said Malcolm.

“Alive?”

“If not, she’s an incredibly well-spoken undead person.”

Bethany winced. “That was awful.”

“I think she came through Kirkwall,” said Merrill.

Marian pinched the bridge of her nose. “Merrill.”

The brightness of Sebastian dimmed as his temper rose, his auburn brows slashing downwards. “You mean to tell me that my sister was here, in this city?”

“I didn’t mean to tell you,” said Malcolm. Because he hadn’t. He hadn’t thought and then he’d opened his big mouth and now he had a real prince pissed off at him.

“And you just mentioned it now?”

“It was Merrill who mentioned it. I did not mention it.” Technically, he’d discussed it, but this was about what Sebastian had overheard, not exactly what was said when. Mostly.

“I should punch you.”

He braced himself for a hit, but none came. That boggled his mind because Meghan had said she and Sebastian had two older brothers. In Malcolm’s experience, older brothers followed through with hits straight away, before he could duck. “You should punch—” Then he thought better of it, realizing that advocating for Sebastian to punch Merrill would be awful. It would also be painful, because Merrill was a blood mage—which he kept forgetting—and Líadan would take exception. “Actually, punch me.”

“No.” Sebastian crossed his arms over his remarkably reflective breastplate, and went from looking dark and threatening to imperious and arrogant. “I am no longer that selfish, impetuous young man.”

Malcolm snuck a glance over at Marian, because if she were involved in any sort of relationship with him, _how_ did she handle his whip-quick changes in temperament? She had her face resting on her hand, which answered that unasked question. He switched back to Sebastian. “Well, good. I didn’t look much forward to being punched. Also, Meghan mentioned that Varric couldn’t secure her safety here without the aid of the Chantry, and the Chantry wouldn’t provide said protection unless she became an initiate or lay sister. So, maybe you should, I don’t know, punch the Chantry?”

The imperiousness dropped away. “Did he ask Her Grace?”

Malcolm shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s all the information I have. Are you going to punch the Grand Cleric now?”

Sebastian lifted an eyebrow. “You’re incredibly obsessed with punching.”

“I just want to be sure you aren’t going to be punching me. You’re the one who bought up punching.”

“She hasn’t written to me, not even to tell me she’s alive. You’d think she’d want me to know she was alive after our entire family was killed, and she presumed dead with the rest.”

The sadness in Sebastian’s tone almost made Malcolm feel bad. “Probably because she wanted to stay that way. If anyone found out from you or intercepted her letter, your family’s killers could track her down.”

“They aren’t a problem anymore,” said Marian. “We killed them a month or so ago, and killed the person behind it. Well, persons, I should say, since there was also a desire demon involved.”

It seemed it always came down to demons. “Maybe she’ll write to you now,” he said to Sebastian. “You could take back Starkhaven together.”

Sebastian’s look grew thoughtful. “Perhaps.”

Marian sighed rather loudly. Bethany put a comforting arm around her shoulder. Before he could ask what that was about, Anders stood up. “We should get to the planning and not waste anymore time reminiscing.” He waited briefly for nods, and for Sebastian to seat himself, before he continued. “Compared to other trips to the Fade, this one will be fairly simple, since we’ve got Feynriel. We—by ‘we,’ I mean myself, Feynriel, and Líadan, and Bethany will stay awake to keep track of everyone’s health, Líadan’s in particular—”

“Wait,” said Cullen, holding up a hand to stop Anders. “You’re the healer. Shouldn’t you be the one awake, instead of Bethany? I know she can heal, but she isn’t the best healer of her entire generation, like I’ve heard Senior Enchanters say of you.”

“I’m a spirit healer,” Anders said. He surprisingly did not fumble to find an explanation that didn’t include the part about being inhabited by a spirit of the Fade. He even remained calm and rational toward Cullen, though it’d been Cullen the templar who’d objected to his plan. “Being a spirit healer means I’m better at finding good spirits in the Fade, like Faith or Valor or Justice, who might aid us against the demon. Their assistance would be invaluable, and possibly necessary.”

Cullen nodded. “Ah, that makes sense. Forgive my interruption.”

After Anders shot Cullen a curious look, he went on. “We all take a sleeping draught, and once we’re asleep, Feynriel can find each of us and bring us together to find the demon. No need for a ton of lyrium or a special lyrium potion like in a Harrowing. Just sleep, really. If we didn’t have Feynriel, it would be a lot more complicated, so there’s that. Once we find the demon, we kill it. Once it’s dead, Feynriel will wake us up by bringing us out of the Fade. Provided no one gets possessed while we’re there, we’ll be done.”

The entire thing appeared deceptively easy. “So that’s the whole plan?” asked Malcolm. “There’s no trick or extra component or anything? We don’t need to go slay a dragon and take its eyeball? Bellybutton lint? Toe jam?”

Marian frowned and tapped a finger on her chin. “I think it would be claw jam. Or maybe talon jam?”

“Maker’s mercy,” said Leandra. “My daughter meets Fereldan royalty and converses about—I can’t even say it.”

Marian flashed a grin at her. “Toe jam, Mother.”

“If Alistair were here,” said Líadan, “believe me, the conversation would be a lot worse. Be thankful there’s only one Theirin present.”

Malcolm slouched in his chair and grumbled under his breath.

“One more thing,” Anders said after regaining their attention. “We can’t let Feynriel die in the Fade. If he dies there, it will render him Tranquil out here, because he’s a Dreamer.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Cullen. “I assume this isn’t true for all mages? I hope it isn’t. I know I’ve had dreams where I’ve died in them, which was terrifying and startling in of itself. But if a mage had such dreams, to wake up Tranquil...” He shook his head. “I can’t even imagine.”

Feynriel gave the templar a small, sad smile. “No, only me, I’m afraid. It has something to do with my particular talent.”

“Well, that’s a relief for the rest, I suppose, but not so much for you.” Cullen returned to Anders. “I take it my role in this is to stand vigil in case someone is visibly possessed?”

“Yes,” Marian said before Anders could reply. “We need you to make sure that in case a demon forcibly takes anyone and changes them, that you can stop the abomination from killing more than the mage they took.”

Cullen held her gaze for a moment before nodding. “It would be my solemn duty.” He stood up, the leather straps on his arms creaking as he did. “If you would allow me, I would like to meditate in the library, to prepare.”

“By all means,” said Leandra. “You do us a favor with your presence, Knight-Captain, and will keep us safe from harm.”

After Cullen had gone, Anders waved his hand at the rest. “All right, I need to speak with Malcolm and Líadan alone. That means the rest of you, get out, and don’t try to eavesdrop, either.”

“It’s not like I’m Isabella,” Marian said under her breath as she walked out.

Anders chuckled to himself, but hustled her out, nonetheless. He closed the doors, barred them, and after a moment’s pause, cast a silencing ward. Then he dragged three chairs closer together in a corner of the room, and motioned the pair with him to sit. They did so, but Malcolm felt the trepidation building in his chest, that the battle was almost there, and there was no stopping it.

“Are you still all right with this?” Anders asked Líadan after she’d settled into the chair. “If you call this off, it’s okay. At any point, up until we’re in the Fade, if you want to stop this, just say so, and we will.”

“Do you know another way?” she asked, more quietly than Malcolm liked, because it meant she felt the same trepidation as he did, only far more strongly than he could ever comprehend.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

She nodded. “Then we go through with it. I’m not letting it get me, Anders. I’m not.”

“Just making sure.” He extended a hand toward Líadan’s middle. “May I?”

“I assumed you would.”

He gave her a wane smile. “Never hurts to ask. Enthusiastic consent, I always say.”

Líadan grinned at that, recognizing as Malcolm did, the spark of the Anders they’d both known before Justice had moved in. “Go ahead.”

The comforting, warm greenish glow of healing magic flared at Anders’ fingertips, and he bent slightly toward Líadan as he closed his eyes and looked inward. Or however it worked, because Malcolm wasn’t sure. Then Anders’ smile spread into a broad one, the magic winked out, and he sat up. “She’s doing well. Strong and healthy.” Then he turned to Malcolm. “Right. Remember that favor I did for you, quite some time ago? Keeping those baby spiders from crawling all over you? Well, I’m asking for your payment now. I need you to be calm.”

“What do you want me to do?” He’d just told them that the baby was all right, and yet the fear lanced through Malcolm, that she wasn’t all right, and Anders was about to tell them.

“That’s what I’m asking of you. To be calm, because I doubt you’ll like hearing any of this, but it needs to be said, and you need to hear it.” Anders looked between Malcolm and Líadan. “Both of you.”

They exchanged a glance that revealed more than a little of the fear lurking within each of them, and then nodded at Anders.

“Good.” He took a breath and looked down to compose himself. Then he alternately looked each of them in the eye. “You should both know, if the worst should happen, there is a chance the child could be saved if there were another good spirit healer present. If the babe got out in time, she’s big enough now to stand a chance if she avoids the demon. So, if you happen to know another good spirit healer—”

“I don’t,” said Líadan.

Malcolm frowned. “Isn’t Emrys a spirit healer?” Not his first choice, or a choice at all, really, but if that’s what it took to save either of them, he’d deal with it.

“Not a good one.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Fine. Not a good one for me, and definitely not a good one for our daughter.”

Considering the things Emrys had said, she had an excellent point, even though Emrys was one of their only choices. He sighed. “What about Marethari?”

“Not a spirit healer and not much better as far as choices go.” Though Líadan’s tone was hard with her determination, sadness permeated it, that she couldn’t come up with a solution for saving her child, if it came to that.

“Another thing, while you’re talking about the Dalish,” said Anders. Then his voice shifted, and his skin and eyes took on the otherworldly glow that was slowly becoming disturbingly familiar. “The blood mage cannot be in the room.”

Malcolm had to fight with himself to remain seated and not draw his sword at the appearance of the spirit. Líadan held herself to no such measures, and immediately shot to her feet. “I want her to be,” she said as she glared down at the spirit in Anders’ seated body. “She’s my clanmate. I don’t care that she’s a blood mage. She’s no danger to me or anyone else, not even a mouse, unless they were trying to harm us. She stays.”

“No. It cannot be allowed.”

 ****“Yes. You have no idea what you’re asking by telling me she can’t stay. She _stays_ , spirit.” She poked him in the chest with her finger for good measure, showing no fear at all of the Fade spirit.

Anders’—Justice’s—face twitched, and he appeared to be struggling internally. The blue glow faded in and out until it dimmed entirely, and the soul behind Anders’ eyes belonged to Anders once more. “Justice is concerned,” Anders said in his own voice, “and he’s expressing it poorly.”

“I never would have guessed,” said Malcolm.

The look Anders directed at Malcolm was full of exasperation. “You, I’ll kick out.”

“I might not disagree,” said Líadan.

Malcolm kept his mouth shut.

“Merrill can stay, at the beginning,” Anders said to Líadan. “but once we’re all asleep, she’ll have to at least leave the room. For what it’s worth, I don’t hold it _much_ against her, even if Justice does. It isn’t her fault the demons come after her, not even because she chose to become a blood mage. It’s her unique combination, I think, of her being an incredibly powerful mage in the first place, coupled with the blood magic. It means demons really want to take her over, and it means she’s got a pride demon leading the pack. But I think I do understand why you want her there.”

Líadan studied him for a moment, and nodded when she found her confirmation. Then she asked, “Anders, how are _you_ doing? I mean, with the spirit and the sharing. Seeing you actually fight the spirit for control over your body isn’t heartening.”

“I think he’s taking over,” said Anders. “Justice, I mean. But he’s not... he isn’t entirely Justice. He was, but something’s corrupted him, I think. Maybe my human nature. I don’t know. What I do know is that Vengeance is stronger than me, and stronger than Justice, and I don’t know if I can keep him from consuming both of us before... before my proper Calling, I suppose. I don’t particularly want to go earlier, mind you.”

“So, if that was Justice, what are you like when Vengeance takes over?”

He grimaced, his eyes showing the pain of a flash of re-lived memory. “Awful. I mean, take our recent trip to Sundermount, for instance. When Pol said those terrible things to Merrill, and then ran away, straight at the varterral that killed him, I could easily see Merrill’s incredible pain. Yet, it was Vengeance who spoke, silencing me and Justice both. I couldn’t stop him, even though I knew my friend was in pain and I wanted to help. Because that’s what I _do_. I’m a healer. Aside from escaping Kinloch Hold, it’s what I’m best at, no matter how much I kidded with Velanna about the size of our fireballs. With Vengeance, I can’t heal. Literally.”

Anders sighed and glanced down at his hands, his long fingers stretched out, as if he could will them to always do what he wanted. “And Merrill just... she accepted Vengeance’s harsh judgement, not saying a word in her own defense.” He chuckled, but it was mostly absent of mirth. “Marian didn’t, though. She threatened to lay me out if I did anything like that again.”

“Then what happened?” asked Líadan. 

“Vengeance made clear is own opinion on the matter. Maker, he was nasty. I wanted to deck him.” He chuckled again, a tiny bit of humor laced with far more sorrow and regret. “Marian did it for me. Actually knocked me down, and then wrapped Merrill up in a hug.”

“Merrill won’t talk to me about what happened. She kept changing the subject to me and my problems.”

“As well she should,” said Anders. “Your problems are a lot more immediate than hers, and you’re really good at postponing dealing with them, like you are right now.” He stood up. “Marian’s set aside a guest room for us to use that will fit everyone and anyone. It’s upstairs, first room on the left. I’ll go now with Bethany and Feynriel. Meet us there in a few minutes.” Then he slipped out of the dining room and closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

Malcolm almost didn’t want to be left alone with Líadan, because then he’d have to acknowledge that this could be the last time they would be alone together, ever. Because she could very easily die in the next few hours.

He had no idea what to say.

Then he did, and it was absolutely the wrong thing, but he said it anyway. “I don’t want you to do this.” It came out as a plea.

“I don’t want to, either, but I don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“Malcolm, I don’t want to lose _myself_. We’ve had this conversation before, more than once. It isn’t going to change anything, because the outcome of doing nothing is far worse than trying to kill this demon.”

He wanted to stand up because he didn’t want to be sitting anymore, but he knew if he stood he’d be tempted to run. Not out of cowardice, not exactly, but only a desperate, last-ditch effort of his heart to keep them from having to go through this. Yet, he knew that even if he ran, it would still happen. She would still go into the Fade with the other mages and face down the demon after her, whether or not he was there. So he remained in his chair, and tried to use humor. “I suppose this is the part where I declare my unending, undying love for you.” It was a horrible declaration, really, because it wasn’t direct, and he said it to his feet instead of her. “You know, just in case.”

“I already know you love me.”

“Well, yes. I know you do. It’s just one of those moments.” He finally looked up as he made a grand gesture with his arms, feeling stupid the entire time. “You know, _those_ moments.” When she gave no indication of understanding, he tried again. “For instance, had we been together in the time leading to the fight with the Archdemon, then one of those moments would’ve been right before we went out on the roof of Fort Drakon.”

She briefly closed one eye as she tried to remember. “Wasn’t that when Riordan gave his rousing little speech?”

“After that.”

“But that’s when we were all inspired by Riordan’s speech and ran out onto the rooftop.”

He rolled his eyes and stood to move closer to her. “Fine, then before I tried to kill the Archdemon and Riordan stopped me.”

“That was when I was being actively mauled by a shriek.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose. You are.”

Despite everything that awaited them, Líadan grinned in reply, and he jolted inside at how much he loved her. When her impishness and vitality shone in her eyes, he couldn’t fathom losing her. He held out his hand and she took it without question, allowing him to help her stand. Then he wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, but he had his arms wrapped around her, and hers around him. He held his head next to hers, his cheek brushing against her hair and pointed ear. “Don’t die,” he whispered. “Please.”

Her only response was to tighten her arms around him and press impossibly close.


	66. Chapter 66

  
“At the moment of Her death

I knew what I had done, and I wept.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Alistair**

****The candles in the sconces along the wall did not provide enough light, in Alistair’s opinion. The lack of sufficient candles rendered the palace chapel’s nave dim. If the cavernous room hadn’t been dominated by the protective presence of Andraste’s statue near the altar, Alistair might have felt trepidation. As it was, the atmosphere did feel a slight bit creepy, in his opinion. Seeker Cassandra certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Why she couldn’t have met him during the daytime, when daylight blazed through the stained glass windows of the chapel, turning the large room bright and cheerful, Alistair didn’t know. If _he_ were a servant of the Chantry in a super-secretive Order, he would do his best to make meetings not-creepy. But that was him, and probably one in the long list of reasons why he’d have made a poor templar, and an even poorer Seeker.

The candles flickered and Alistair shivered. He wondered if anyone would argue with the King if he chose to light some extra candles. Only half the sconces were lit at night, which did nothing to lessen the creepy atmosphere.

When he saw movement at Andraste’s feet, he nearly screamed, even though he’d been expecting Cassandra, seeing as she’d been the one to invite him here. Command, really. Cassandra’s voice did nothing _but_ command. Maker, he hoped she was the youngest of her siblings, or any younger ones would have grown up cowering in fear. Alistair halted his walk to the statue and squinted into the darkness at the base of the stone Andraste. 

Whoever stood there, he or she was not Cassandra. 

The silhouette resembled one he was well familiar with, the same as the one he’d seen in the shadows in the market weeks ago. He stared at the unmoving figure, and then pointed at it. “A ghost!” he said, putting as much lightheartedness into his voice as he could, because it was either a ghost or the real person and he wasn’t sure which would be more frightening. 

The person stepped out from underneath Andraste’s shadow, the scant light reflecting off the red hair Alistair had run his fingers through many times during the Blight.

He decided a ghost would have been less scary. In order to keep from hyperventilating, he kept talking. “Or...oh, wait, I know this one. I’m in the Fade, yeah? All right, demon, let’s have it out.”

The woman who looked suspiciously like Leliana rolled her eyes.

“Huh,” he said. “Never had a demon do that before.” Then she started walking toward him, getting rather close, and he wouldn’t say he retreated, but he did take a few tactical steps backward. Enough steps that the wall at his back stopped his progress as the ghost—undead? demon?—moved to stand in front of him.

“Hello, Alistair,” she said. 

It was Leliana. He’d have known that lilting voice anywhere, as well as the softness in her blue eyes when she looked upon him. There was a catch to his realization, of course. “Not sure if you were informed, but you’re dead. As in, not living. As in, your body burned on a pyre to send you to the Maker’s side kind of dead. As in, I stabbed you myself because you had the blight sickness kind of dead. And here you stand, looking not dead. Not even undead. You look rather well, actually. Not tainted at all.” He crossed his arms in an effort to keep from reaching out to touch her. “Care to explain?”

“I was dead. I am no longer so.”

“Not even Andraste rose from the dead. Try again.” He knew he sounded hostile, but he couldn’t settle on how he felt about her being alive. His mind vacillated between angry and hurt and sad and happy and angry again. Mostly angry, because if this had all been a trick, what she’d put him through to carry it out was unconscionable. 

“I will try.” She took a breath. “When my mother died, this wise elven woman comforted me and told me that we shouldn’t fear death, or hate it. Death is just another beginning. One day, we must all shed our earthly bodies to allow our spirits to fly free. And thus, you embark on another journey.”

He held up a hand—the ‘you embark’ part had him concerned, especially with Leliana being a bard, which was really just a short word for ‘assassin.’ “Wait, you aren’t here to kill me, are you?”

“No, that would be absurd.”

“Absurd is a dead person alive and well, but please, continue.” Alistair extended his arm, indicating for her to do so.

The annoyed look she gave him certainly seemed like the Leliana he remembered. “As I was saying, death is just the gateway, as it was for me.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing—you didn’t actually _die_. Not if you’re standing right here, perfectly alive and untainted, and how in the Maker’s name did you fake that?”

“Archdemon blood.”

Yes, the safe in the compound they’d stupidly had her crack. “You stole it.” He knew he sounded like a tattling schoolboy, but he didn’t care. “You stole it when we visited the compound.” 

She nodded slowly, as if she regretted having done so, and Alistair couldn’t find it within himself to feel sympathy. She’d been deceiving them at least that far ahead of the Battle of Honnleath. Anger won out over everything, fueled on by the hurt of betrayal. She had used him and tricked him, and yet within the bursts of anger were flashes of softer memories. Nights in their tent, those lips not speaking of betrayal, but whispering things entirely different, her blushing reaction when he gave her the rose, and then her outrage following, the stories she told him... and then the anger came back, burning through each memory like the flames had taken Leliana’s supposed body on the bier.

The ashes of the memories did not dampen his anger when he spoke, cutting and sharp. “So, how is it you’re alive? Did you filch some of Andraste’s ashes while we weren’t looking? Because the last time I checked, a dagger to the heart means death, fake blight sickness or not.” 

When she responded, her voice was infuriatingly composed, and her face impassive. “Andraste’s ashes were not meant for me. At times, I am not sure they were meant for Arl Eamon.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Bann Ceorlic is not the traitor you believe him to be.” Then, as she calmly recounted to him the conversation she had shared earlier that day with Meghan Vael, he began to seethe.

If Meghan Vael had said the things Leliana claimed she had, Eamon was a traitor. Now, Alistair thought a lot of things about Eamon, a balanced mix of good and bad. As of late, he’d wondered exactly what that illness during the Blight had done to his mental well-being. Since the illness had been caused by a blood mage, there was no telling what the long-term effects would be. If Leliana’s accusations were true, which Alistair had to admit to himself were not outside the realm of possibility, Eamon’s descent into paranoia and single-mindedness looked remarkably like the same decline Loghain had followed. Maybe the blood mage had gotten them both. Then he realized it didn’t really matter. Loghain had been executed as a traitor years before, and if Eamon really was planning what Leliana said he was, Eamon was just as doomed. 

But, Maker, Eamon had an infant daughter. While Loghain had had a daughter, as well, at least his had been an adult. She’d had her entire childhood with him, and if Alistair sent Eamon to the executioner as a traitor, then he’d be depriving Rowan of her father for pretty much her entire life. Alistair was no fool to miss the impact Loghain’s absence had on Anora, even though it was a subject they never, ever spoke about. Rowan would be left with nothing but other peoples’ memories of her own father. 

There was always the possibility that Leliana was lying. It wasn’t like she hadn’t already set Thedas’ record for precedents in appearing to die and then having the audacity to _not_ actually die. “Do you have evidence?” he asked, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “Because the Landsmeet won’t—”

“No!” Her hand whipped out and grabbed his wrist, as if to physically stop him from calling a Landsmeet right then and there. “You must not confront him openly at the Landsmeet.”

Alistair looked pointedly at her hand, which she gingerly removed from his wrist, accompanied by a brief shimmer of regret in the clear blue of her eyes. Once, neither had objected to contact between the two of them, and had needed no specific invitation to do so. The reminder of how easy it had been pained Alistair, but he recognized it for what it was: an illusion the woman standing before him had callously shattered. “This isn’t Orlais. The Landsmeet is conducted openly for a reason.” Sometimes, he wondered if it were so the other nobles could watch the fights break out, that in of itself somewhat a spectator sport.

“Ferelden is not above clandestine politics, Alistair. You should know this as well as anyone. If you accuse Eamon openly, it will push him into a corner, and like any cornered animal, he will become desperate. This desperation would make him betray you worse than he already has. He would tell everyone of your mother, every aspect of her. I do not need to tell you what would happen should he do so.”

He gritted his teeth, feeling cornered himself, because he could see Eamon doing exactly as Leliana had said. But he couldn’t just go order an execution, and especially not for Eamon. While they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, he could still recognize the good in the man, though it had gotten harder to discern lately. “Evidence. I need evidence. I can’t just drag him in to accuse him of treason on some whim of yours.”

“He had an interview today with Seeker Cassandra. In the interview, he agreed to divulge more information about your mother in exchange for a meeting with a possible Theirin relative in Orlais.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was there.”

“Hidden, no doubt.” Hidden, dressed in her black Seeker leathers, looking everything and nothing like the woman he’d loved during the Blight. 

Leliana remained silent, which was answer enough.

Her revelations didn’t leave him with a lack for questions. “Is there a possible Theirin relative in Orlais?” he asked.

“You will have to ask Cassandra.”

Of course she wouldn’t give him a straight answer. Alistair paced, striding away from the wall as he rubbed the back of his neck, doing his best to not feel overwhelmed. After all, a woman he’d thought long dead had turned out not to be, unless this was some sort of elaborate dream. Maybe the sloth demon that was hunting Líadan had gotten bored and decided to come after him. Maybe it was another demon. Maybe he’d been talking to a remarkably well-spoken ghost.

Or maybe this was real life, and Leliana had never been who he’d thought she was. 

“How?” he asked, his voice rougher than he preferred. She’d never finished clarifying the important aspect of _how_ she wasn’t dead.

“How, what?”

He turned to face her, using his anger as he used his shield in battle—to bludgeon. “How did you pretend to die? How did you fake being tainted? You couldn’t have ingested the archdemon blood; it would have killed you outright.” The answer came to him and he snapped his fingers. “You wore it, since it leaked the taint to anyone sensitive to it.”

“You were always more clever than you let on, or that you believed.” Her inflection carried too much fondness, too many of the feelings closely associated with emotions like love for him to care for it.

“Don’t,” he said. “Just... answer. Tell me how you did it.”

So she did. The vial of Archdemon blood, the injury in the battle, the potions for fever and making her skin look like it was blighted, the potions to keep her alive even with a mortal injury, the switch the Chantry had made with her body.

On hearing the full extent of her deception, learning just how much he and his friends had been used, he had to admit it was rather ingenious, albeit rage-inducing. It certainly placed Morrigan in a brighter light for him. She, at least, had never really hidden who she was. Sure, her agenda hadn’t been entirely clear, but she’d never pretended not to have one. 

“I watched my funeral,” Leliana said, sounding remarkably sad, “from the top of the cliffs.”

“Do you have any idea how screwed up that sounds? Try that one on for size. ‘I watched my own funeral.’ Except it wasn’t, because you weren’t really dead, and it was some stranger’s body we burned on that bier. We mourned a stranger.” His mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Maybe we would have either way, given none of us had any idea who you really were.”

“Morrigan did.”

“Morrigan? That’s your defense?” He threw his arms in the air. “Well, that changes everything! _Morrigan_ knew! All must be forgiven!” He faced Leliana again. “Just so you’re aware, Morrigan did not see fit to inform the rest of us, probably because Morrigan never tells anyone anything, pretty much ever. So you’ll just have to figure out another way to defend your having tricked the lot of us. Makes me wonder if I ever really knew you at all.”

Hurt from Alistair’s words caused Leliana’s chin to quiver. “Is that what you think?”

“I think the Leliana I knew is still dead. Or she was never alive.” 

“I am right here, Alistair, very much alive. Please do not ignore my warning.”

“Ignore? I’m not ignoring. I’m just not believing you.” He stepped closer to her, feeling the same rage and defensiveness he’d felt when confronting the Knight-Vigilant. This woman, this woman who wore the face of one he’d loved, had hurt his family. “I’d kill you for what you’ve done, but there’s no guarantee it’ll take. Either way, you’re a stranger who’s lied to me plenty of times before. Why should I trust you? Why should I even contemplate trusting you?”

“For what we once were, if nothing else.”

Except that her deception meant what they once were had been _nothing_. A great, big tangle of nothing. “You aren’t listening to me. I’m not sure if we were ever anything because practically every word out of your mouth is a lie. So, you’d better find some other reason for me to trust you, or I might change my mind about the killing.”

Leliana looked up at the ceiling, opening her mouth slightly, and then closing it. Then she brought her gaze back down to him. Her tone had lost much of the hurt, replaced by deadly severity. “Alistair, if you value the lives of your family, you will heed my warning.”

He closed the distance between them to shove her against the chantry wall. The impact from her body knocked a tall, thick candle from its sconce. It landed on the floor, guttered, and died out.

Alistair had fistfuls of her collar and held his face uncomfortably close to hers, ignoring how familiar the intimacy felt. The racing hearts and heavy breaths, penetrating gazes and anticipation, resembled what had once been, and yet meant something quite the opposite. They were no longer lovers. They were no longer friends. They were scarcely even acquaintances. The only credit he gave her now was that she continued to look him in the eye. “You have one chance to explain to me how that wasn’t a threat,” he told her in a tone that was more growl than anything else.

Her answer came in even and hard, belying nothing of the tremble he could feel in her limbs. “If you do not act, you and those you love will be in danger, and not from me.” Her voice softened, losing the hard edge it had kept so far. “Never from me.”

Alistair let her go with a rough push, and then stepped back before he did something he’d regret. “Your little raiding party attempting to protect us and your precious Chantry certainly proved a danger to me and my family. Or have you forgotten what happened to my brother? His mabari—you know, the wardog who saved your life and mine more times than I can count? Or how those templars nearly killed my sister-in-law—who just _happens_ to be carrying my unborn niece—with their relentless smites?”

She responded to the anger driving his words, matching it with outrage of her own. “Did you forget how it was a Seeker who gave his life to protect you? Or another Seeker who lost an arm to protect Anora and your unborn child?”

If one didn’t know Leliana well, such as having spent half a Blight in her intimate company, one wouldn’t have heard the hitch in her voice when she mentioned Anora and the child. Alistair heard it and ignored it, refusing to sympathize with someone like her. Once, he would have cared a great deal, but that was when he’d thought he’d known her. This woman was a stranger, a Seeker, and practically an enemy. “Yet, you’ve forgotten that some templars tried to kidnap my nephew. And before you object, recall that those templars were under your command.”

“I had thought I knew them.”

He let go of a sarcastic laugh. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? You didn’t know them, they betrayed you, and we suffered for it.”

Her fingers curled into fists, Alistair’s constant barbs having finally gotten to her as she flung questions at him. “Do you think this easy for me? Do you think I’m not suffering?”

Alistair didn’t have to think about either of those things; he already knew. This was hard for her, and she suffered a great deal in whatever she’d done and was doing currently. But she’d chosen this life. She’d left them in the middle of a sodding _Blight_ , had forced him to think he’d killed her, all to run back to Orlais and serve her Maker and her Chantry, forgetting the mortal souls who’d cared for her. The people—person—who had believed he’d loved her. He studied her as she waited for his answer, her nostrils flaring when she breathed out. “I think I don’t care,” he said, as evenly as possible.

Leliana flinched. Through endless battles, innumerable sparring sessions, and close encounters, Alistair had never once witnessed Leliana flinch. His piercing, calculated statement struck as no bladed threat ever had. He’d expected to feel triumphant over it, should have felt triumphant over it, yet there was no victory to be had. He still felt empty and angry and hurt and had no idea how to mend whatever had been torn inside. Almost, almost did he feel satisfied to see that Leliana was just as torn as he, but it somehow wasn’t enough, or wasn’t the resolution he needed. 

She gathered herself quickly, consummate bard as she was. “Eamon must be taken care of, as should Isolde. An accident, perhaps. I could arrange it if you—”

“No.”

“Alistair, something must be done about him. He has gone too far. Surely, you must see this.”

“Of course I see it! I just...” He spun, wanting to rip his hair out in his frustration. “There has to be something good left in the man. I can’t just have him killed, not in an accident, not by execution. Exile, maybe. His word has to be good. It has to.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or Leliana, but it didn’t matter. She would never be convinced, and he wasn’t sure if he could entirely convince himself. But he had to, because Eamon had been the person who’d given him food and shelter as a child. Eamon had been the closest thing Alistair had to a father before he’d been sent to the Chantry. He owed him. “I can’t just name him a traitor.”

“He named himself a traitor.”

A fair distinction, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it, because he didn’t want her to be right about anything. “I’ll obtain his word that he won’t betray who my mother is. Besides, giving away that sort of information would destabilize Ferelden, and that’s something Eamon doesn’t want to happen. His word will be good. He’ll make that promise, and then I’ll send him out of the country forever. Exile, not death, for what I owe him.”

“You have overpaid your debt to him, and then some. Do not risk—”

“I am the King here. You do not give me orders.”

“Never orders, Alistair. Only advice. You may take it or leave it as you will.”

He’d leave it. Mostly. A meeting with Eamon was certainly in order, and a come to the Maker kind of chat. What he really wanted right now was to have this meeting with Leliana to be over, because his mind was about ready to melt at the implications. He half expected to wake up, with this entire talk having been a dream. “We’re done here?” he asked when she remained silent.

“I have told you all you needed to know.”

He nodded. “Good. I never want to see you again. If I do, I’ll run you through before you say hello.” 

This time, she did not flinch. Alistair turned on his heel and walked out of the chapel. He stared straight ahead, and refused to look behind him, at the past.

To his surprise, he headed straight to his rooms, to where he’d left a sleeping Anora when the summons had arrived. Of course, Anora hadn’t meant to fall asleep so early in the evening, and certainly not when they’d been strategizing how they’d handle the Landsmeet at Wintersend when the issue of Malcolm and Líadan was sure to come up. Alistair had been going on about how they needed to be sure the outspoken Teagan was on their side when he’d noticed light snoring coming from Anora’s chair. Moments later had been the summons, and so after he’d chuckled quietly to himself, he’d put a blanket over her and left. 

After he closed the door behind him, he looked up to see Anora very much awake, perched on one of the room’s chairs, engrossed in a thick book. She glanced toward him at hearing the click of the door. “You are troubled,” she said. “You have that look about you.”

“I saw Leliana.” The sentence came out easily enough, but his throat felt as parched as Andraste’s ashes. He hunted down the water jug and cups as he waited for Anora’s answer.

It didn’t take long. “You had a vision?”

Would that he had. “No.” He gulped down the water, and then carefully replaced the empty cup before he explained further. “I mean, I really saw her. She’s alive. That whole dying at Honnleath thing? A trick. Orlesian, as you would say.”

“What did she want?” Timidity was not a trait found within Anora’s speech, and yet the softness of the question revealed that it did dwell within her. 

“She told me that it isn’t Ceorlic who’s been conspiring against us. It’s Eamon.”

“Do you believe her?” 

Alistair noted that Anora did not sound shocked at Leliana’s revelation. Maybe everyone else had seen Eamon’s inevitable end except for him, or Anora and Leliana both saw something no one else saw in Eamon. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“I could speak with him, if you wish. Your interactions with him do tend to run to the fraught side, and your history with him colors your judgement of his character.”

He shook his head. “No. I think this is a conversation I need to have with him, myself. I should have had it a long time ago.”

“I do not disagree.” Anora studied the cover of the book she’d set aside on an end table for a time. Then she asked, “Did she give you any details of Eamon’s plans?”

“Mmm. Yes. She did, actually. He’s looking for a Theirin relative or bastard or something, maybe one in Orlais. His thinking is that a bard or two might’ve slept with one of the kings who’s visited there, that perhaps Celene or her predecessor gave orders to try to get a Theirin bastard.” He shrugged. “Needle in a haystack, really, but his head’s done in with the magic.”

Anora’s brow furrowed. “You mean the blood magic cast on him during the Blight?”

“No. Well, maybe. Not directly, in this case. I meant more that between what happened with Connor, with the Seekers showing up and taking over our palace, no matter how brief a time, he doesn’t like the idea of the potential for magic running through the blood of the royal family. Both Malcolm and me. So, he wants to find a replacement who happens to be free of that particular taint.”

“Treason,” said Anora.

“So I’ve been told.” Even more, he wanted this to be a Fade dream. No matter how angry he’d gotten with Eamon in the past, this wasn’t something he wanted to believe was true of his former guardian. Yet, the more he rolled the concept around in his head, the more he had to face the fact that it was most likely true. 

“He will need to be dealt with. We could have Baltasar—”

“No. I need to speak with him. I have to speak with him before we decide on anything. He’s a good man.” Alistair realized he’d said the last part to the wall. “Or he used to be. Or I believed he was when I was a child. Well, except that time when I blamed him for sending me to the Chantry. Still, I owe him.”

“You owe Arl Eamon nothing. In my opinion, you have given him far too much as it is.” The shrewd, self-composed Anora had returned, her voice sure, and her hands folded over her growing belly.

“Leliana said pretty much the same thing,” Alistair said as he turned to stare out the window into a darkened courtyard. Was she out there? She had to be, since she was with the Seekers, that all-seeing eye on her leathers as damning as what she’d told him. He’d been so certain, when staring at her, his chest a tangled ball of wrath, that if he saw her again afterward that he’d kill her outright. But now, when not looking right at her, the memories of the past were stronger than the fury of the present. His heart seemed determined to force him to think of the good things, even as his mind reminded him that every memory with her was a lie. Yet, here he was, searching outside a window to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.

“How did she fake her death?” Anora asked.

“Some convoluted thing involving a bunch of potions, Archdemon blood in a vial worn on the body, some body switching, and watching her own funeral. Touching, really, that last bit, watching us all mourn someone who wasn’t really dead.” The pain rushed back, of having lost the wonderful thing he’d had in the gloom of the Blight, and how everything had been eclipsed in darkness, afterward. To find out he’d been in darkness the entire time, how every pretty word that had fallen from her lips had been a falsehood, made that part of his life seem meaningless. 

Still, he stared out the window.

Anora delicately cleared her throat. “I have a question, Alistair, if you would permit me to ask it.”

He frowned. “You don’t need my permission to ask a question, you know. You never have before.”

“This is... personal.”

He turned, entirely confused. “I hardly think anything between us would be too personal to ask, since you’re my wife.”

“Do you love her?”

It didn’t take a genius to realize to whom Anora was referring—Leliana. “I did.”

“I am not asking about before. I was asking about now, since she has miraculously been resurrected and returned to the living.”

He knew he could be mistaken, but Anora had started to sound the tiniest bit angry. Perhaps. Not that he knew why, but he did know enough to keep his mouth shut about the technicality that Leliana couldn’t have been resurrected because she hadn’t really been dead. Instead, he said to her, “You’re my wife.” It was answer enough to him for such an absurd question. Leliana was... Leliana. Dead but not really, bard and Seeker, and a woman for whom he had plenty of memories that were unfortunately prevaricated upon a lie. Anora was his wife; there was truth enough in that, in vows made before the Maker, Andraste, and the public. Simple. 

“You state a fact, yet that does not answer my question, Alistair.” 

But it did answer the question. For a clever person, Anora was being quite dim about this whole thing. It didn’t matter one way or another how he felt about Leliana now—not that he precisely knew what he felt regarding her beyond angry and hurt—Anora was his wife. _That_ was what mattered. Why she didn’t see it, he couldn’t fathom. 

“You don’t have to answer if you do not wish to,” Anora said after Alistair had been silent for what she must have deemed too long.

 _Maker_ , but women were confounding. “I did answer. I said you’re my wife. I mean, I suppose I could go into detail about how I felt when confronted with a woman I’d thought long dead. Angry, mostly, in case you really wanted to know. Probably some hurt in there, too. I’d _thought_ I’d loved her, back then, during the Blight. Now I don’t know. Not about then, and not about now. If I loved her during the Blight, I loved a lie. I loved a person who didn’t even exist. Maybe the emotion I thought I felt wasn’t real at all. I honestly have no idea. But, what I do know, is that you’re my wife, and that’s the end of it.”

“I see,” she said, her eyes returning to the book she’d set aside. 

It was clear enough to him that Anora didn’t see, but had become defensive of something. Of what, he wasn’t exactly sure. What he did know was that he recalled her being this formal and closed up during that first Landsmeet, near the end of the Blight. When she was in this sort of mood, getting anything out of her required the strength of a hundred teams of oxen. So, if he wanted this discussion sorted out, he’d have to wait for her to bring it up again. It did nothing to help his confusion about her, or his anger with Leliana or Eamon, but there wasn’t anything he could do beyond trying to find an incredible amount of patience.

As he watched his wife quietly return to her reading, her shoulders held stiffly, her back straight, her eyes rapidly flying across the pages, he wished his relationship with Anora was as easy as the one his brother shared with his wife. He’d watched enough of their disagreements and miscommunications to know how a simple touch or gesture or word from one to the other could mend what otherwise could not have been mended. They made it look so sodding easy, watching them. Alistair wanted that, desperately, and though he knew his wife was troubled, he had no idea how to fix it, nor did he know how to even approach it, or her. Out of fear of making it worse, he left her to her reading.

Before breakfast the next morning, Alistair sent a summons to Eamon. In the guise of a polite invitation, using language that demanded immediate response, he commanded the arl to meet him in his study at mid-morning. Alistair had assumed he’d have decent control of his temper by then, that his anger at both Leliana and Eamon would have settled into something reasonable that could be tamed.

He was wrong. The rage came back, writhing and hot under his skin, as soon as Eamon stepped into the room. It was the fact that the arl seemed so composed, like he hadn’t committed treason. Eamon had the audacity to act like everything was normal, and Alistair thought it wasn’t fair. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, confused and struggling, and he hadn’t been the one who’d committed treason. Thus, his carefully planned outline of how he’d casually get the information out of Eamon, and then gently inform him of his exile, while not using the word ‘exile,’ went right out the window.

As soon as Eamon sat down, Alistair started in on him. “Have you started an active search for a long-lost cousin, or are you still in the planning stages?”

Eamon sat up straight, his casual bearing gone. “I beg your pardon?”

Alistair was sorely tempted to roll his eyes. “I know, Eamon. I know you’ve been talking to the Seekers.”

“Your Majesty, everyone has been talking to the Seekers. It isn’t exactly a choice.”

Well, now Alistair knew he was on to something. Eamon never used his titles unless he was using formality as a defense mechanism. “The choice that remained yours was what you chose to reveal.”

“I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

“Really?” Alistair raised an eyebrow. “They knew that Malcolm and I have the same mother?” When Eamon didn’t answer, Alistair sighed. “Look, I know you object to magic in the line. I know you want a different Theirin to rule Ferelden. I know you want, if at all possible, to do away with the current Theirins who all contribute to magic’s continued presence in the royal line.”

Eamon clenched his jaw as whatever anger that had driven his decision to turn traitor surged forward. When the arl finally spoke, his tone was impressively controlled, if only just so. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand what it’s like to see your only child and heir turn out to be a mage. You don’t understand what it’s like to see the devastation one untrained mage caused to only a single holding.”

“I know that much. I was there, remember? Oh, wait, no, you don’t remember because you were unconscious, and we had to fetch Andraste’s sodding ashes in order to cure you. You only saw the aftermath. I was there, in the thick of it, fighting the monsters conjured up by the demon who controlled your son. So I know very well, Eamon, exactly what it’s like to see the devastation caused by one untrained mage.”

“A single holding. Imagine how much worse the damage would be to an entire nation?”

He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “What happened at Redcliffe only happened because Isolde was stupid enough to think that a fledgling mage could be taught by an unharrowed Circle mage.”

Eamon studied Alistair closely, as if assessing something within him. Then he asked, “If your unborn child turned out, years later, to be a mage, would you send them to the Circle of Magi?”

Alistair blinked. He hadn’t really given that possibly any thought. He’d vaguely pondered it in regards to his nephew, but given the boy’s magic-filled ancestry, he would be honestly shocked if Cáel turned out not to possess magic. His own child—or children, maybe—being mages? He didn’t think that outcome had much of a chance. There would be only one mage they would have as an ancestor, not several, like Cáel. He also knew his first instinct regarding sending his own child to the Circle would be not to, because he knew exactly what it was like. He’d been on the inside. Yet, mages needed training. There was no escaping that. Even Morrigan, who had the most hatred for the Circle that Alistair had ever seen, held the strong opinion that mages _had_ to be competently trained. Aside from the Circle, it wasn’t like any other methods of training were readily available. Add that the Chantry would damn well know about a royal mage child, and his hands were tied. 

“Yes,” he said, looking Eamon in the eye.

The arl glanced out the window, his voice rough with grief that had still yet to pass. “I hope you never have to know how much it hurts to do so.”

Alistair _almost_ felt sorry for Eamon. Then he remembered Eamon’s plans, and how they would’ve likely gotten him and his brother and their families killed. “I’m sorry about Connor.” That was the truth, at least. One admirable quality about Eamon and Isolde was their love for their son.

“As am I.” Eamon returned his gaze to the King. “But I will not apologize for the rest of it—magic in the line of Calenhad will be a curse on Ferelden. Sooner or later, all the heirs in a generation will possess magic. What then? There may not be any other descendants of Calenhad left that could be traced at all. The Chantry and the people would never allow a mage to rule. Ferelden would return to civil war, and other countries will feast upon its corpse. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“That’s a rather dark outlook, and only one of the possibilities. In the end, it doesn’t matter what you believe is for the good of the country, not when it means committing treason. Loghain learned that the hard way.”

Eamon, who had taken on the slightest of slouches, straightened in his chair. “Are you—”

“No. You didn’t go quite that far.” Alistair wanted to believe that. He did. “You were stopped in time, before crossing that very fine and deadly line. As many mistakes as you made while doing so, you did raise me, in a way. You fed me and put a roof over my head. That’s something I’ll never forget. For that reason alone, I am offering you a choice instead of giving you a sentence: you may voluntarily leave Ferelden, moving to Isolde’s family’s estates in Orlais—or wherever else you might want to go—and never return. Redcliffe will go to Teagan and his heirs. If you do not choose to leave willingly, make no mistake, you will be exiled.”

For a long while, Eamon said nothing. 

Alistair was about to prompt him when the arl finally spoke, sounding nearly broken. “There is magic in my line, due to Isolde. It would be better for Redcliffe if Teagan took over. I will go to Orlais.” Without making eye contact with Alistair, Eamon made as if to leave.

“One more thing,” Alistair said.

Eamon stopped midway off the chair. After giving the King a puzzled look, he sat back down. “What is it?”

“I need your word that you won’t tell anyone about Fiona. No one. Nothing about her, not that she was a mage, not that she was Orlesian, not that she was a Grey Warden, and certainly not that she was an elf. And you know perfectly well why I must ask for this.” Alistair knew that if Eamon hesitated—even slightly—that he would have to find a way to have him... taken care of after he left the Palace. Somehow, the thought of ordering an actual assassination caused him to feel dirtier inside than did the taint running through his veins.

“I will agree to your terms. I do not—” Eamon sighed. “There is no other way to keep Ferelden stable. You and Malcolm are it, magic or no.”

“I wish you had come to that conclusion sooner.” A tiny part of Alistair didn’t believe Eamon, just a tiny part. He mostly squashed it.

Eamon gave him a small nod, and then stood up, his shoulders set as he faced Alistair. “Everything I did, I did for the sake of Ferelden.”

To Alistair, it sounded remarkably similar to Loghain’s reasoning. The same reasoning that had ended with Loghain’s death. “That’s a sentiment I’ve heard before. That man died a traitor’s death. Don’t force yourself to the same end. Goodbye, Eamon.”

As Eamon headed for the door, he paused long enough to place a small object on the corner of Alistair’s desk. He kept his fingers over it as he spoke. “I want you to know,” he said quietly, “that it was never anything personal against you.”

This time, Alistair elected to keep his reply simple. “Farewell.”

Only after the door clicked shut did Alistair look at what the arl had left—his mother’s amulet, painstakingly put back together, and kept safe all those years.


	67. Chapter 67

  
“As the drowning man knows the sea, so does the mage know magic.”

— from the _Tome of Koslun_ , Canto Unknown

**Malcolm**

****“This is awkward,” said Cullen.

Malcolm glanced back at the still-closed door of the room where the mages were going about their final preparations for the ritual to get them into the Fade. “I’m not sure if ‘awkward’ begins to cover it,” he said once he looked at the templar.

Cullen drew a gloved hand over his face, leaving behind a depth of tiredness under his eyes like he’d not slept a full night since the Blight. “Look, I am not... I was not myself, when you found me. It took me a long time afterward to recover, and I still have not yet moved beyond the shame of how I acted, how I sounded. All I can do now is seek to be as fair a templar as I can.” His eyes flicked over to the door the same as Malcolm’s had. “Your fellow Warden, she is not a maleficar. She is not possessed. She is not an abomination. She is not even technically an apostate, because she is a Grey Warden, and therefore beyond the scope of the Chantry. Thus, I am not here in that capacity, nor do I seek to be. I am here as a safeguard, as you and Hawke requested. If—and only if—she clearly begins to change into an abomination, such as during a failed Harrowing, will I use my Sword of Mercy. And I pray to the Maker that it does not come to pass.”

All right, so Cullen had definitely gotten wiser since Malcolm had last seen him. “That’s... well, that’s fair. Like you said. As long as you aren’t so overeager that you believe any twitch of muscle means possessed.”

Cullen scoffed. “Of course not. She’ll be asleep and dreaming. Everyone twitches when they’re asleep and dreaming.”

The door opened, and Bethany stepped out. “It’s time to start.”

Cullen went in first, Malcolm behind him, doing his best to keep from holding his breath. He didn’t fail to notice the reassuring brush of Bethany’s hand on his shoulder, and he wished such gestures helped. They were appreciated, but they did nothing to help the rising choke of dread. 

It was strange to watch, as Anders feebly cracked a joke as each mage going into the Fade drank a sleeping draught. Pallets had been set up on the cleared floor, and in the few minutes the mages had before the potions took effect, they all settled down to prevent any injuries caused by falls. Bethany made herself comfortable sitting near them, and Malcolm did everything he could not to pace. He watched Líadan intently, just as her gaze was on him, wanting to remember every bit of these moments, should they be the last where her eyes were her own. 

They drifted shut.

“And now the wait begins,” said Bethany.

“I always hated this part,” said Cullen as he moved closer to the prone mages. Unlike Bethany, he remained standing, alert but not at attention.

Merrill had already left the room, not having said a word to anyone. Recalling what Anders had said about Merrill accepting Vengeance’s harsh criticism, Malcolm wondered if she truly did take too much of it to heart, and how much of the criticism she allowed was related to how she felt over being exiled. Líadan certainly still struggled with having left her clan, and she’d never been formally exiled, and most likely never would if she hadn’t yet. Merrill seemed extraordinarily sure in her abilities, but very much unsure of herself as a person, and for someone of her nature, it didn’t seem fair. 

Not that he could do much about it, just like he’d been next to useless in helping Líadan with her own struggles at not living in a Dalish clan. He sighed and started to walk toward the wall nearby.

“If you pace, I will petrify your legs,” said Marian.

Malcolm settled for fidgeting. Should they be hoping for a short trip to the Fade or a long one? What was a preferable length of time to be there for this sort of thing? Well, other than no time at all. He leaned against the wall and continued to fidget, all while keeping an eye on Líadan. Time moved slowly, like the ice flows Malcolm had seen in the Hunterhorn Mountains, and he found himself shifting positions constantly. He wasn’t the only one, either, though Cullen remained still. Marian eventually stated to pace, ignoring Malcolm’s dirty look, while Sebastian alternated between standing against a wall or kneeling in prayer. Bethany kept close to the unconscious mages, her magic occasionally flaring to life as she checked on them. Leandra came and went, returning with water or watered-down ale during a few trips. 

When Cullen moved suddenly, Malcolm jumped out of his slump and sprang forward, only to have Cullen wave him off. “I merely had a crick in my neck. No need for concern. Not yet.”

“When should I worry? Is there a specific time?”

“Start to worry if I draw my sword. Otherwise, all is well.”

It helped a little, but did nothing to lessen his fidgeting. A few times, he heard Merrill outside talking with Bodahn or his savant son. Other times, he thought he heard sounds of distant fighting, but couldn’t be sure. After a third time, he caught Marian’s attention. “Anything we should worry about?”

“What?” She stopped her pacing.

“Outside. Kind of sounds like fighting.”

She listened for a moment, and then shrugged it off. “No. Gangs aren’t unknown in Hightown. They probably decided to take advantage of a noble. Aveline’s guards will take care of it.”

“Aveline?” Malcolm recalled a story Aldous had told him about an Aveline, but he couldn’t remember anything beyond the name. 

“No one’s told you about our Aveline?” Hawke smiled, most likely more for the diversion than anything else, and then launched into stories about the friend who’d accompanied her family from Ferelden to Kirkwall. Yet, even as she told her tales, the sounds of fighting never went away, instead growing more frequent. Marian frowned. “All right, someone should go check. Either Aveline’s guards are otherwise occupied, or they need rescuing from their rescuing.”

“I’ll go,” said Sebastian, and then he ducked out the door as Leandra entered.

Sitting near the sleeping mages, Bethany shifted yet again, her magic casting part of the room in a bluish-green light. Her frown was darker than Marian’s had been, and remained on her face far too long. “I don’t like how this is looking.”

It was Cullen’s turn to frown. “None of them seem to be in any distress, nor are they showing signs of possession.”

“I know.” Bethany chewed on the inside of her cheek. “That’s not what I’m worried about right now, but I can see Líadan’s heart rate increasing, and the baby’s heart rate is increasing in turn, and I just don’t _know_ enough about healing. I really wish we’d found a better healer before we’d gone through with this. Father would have known what to do.”

“That’s because Father was a dirty cheat, being a spirit healer,” said Marian. “He didn’t do it himself; he called on spirits.”

“Your father was a very good healer,” said Leandra. “And despite his skill, he always worried that it wouldn’t be enough. You’re doing fine, Bethany.”

“Yes, I’m doing fine, and I’ll do fine right up until the moment that I’m not, and there won’t be anyone around to take up the slack.”

Malcolm wanted to wield a joke effective enough to break the tension, but none came. The only thoughts that floated through his mind were his worries, now made worse by Bethany’s waning confidence in her abilities and growing concern about Líadan. He risked Marian’s threats and started to pace. However, he’d hardly gotten started—and only earned a single glare from Marian—when the unmistakeable sound of armed fighting came from right outside.

“That was close,” said Marian. “Where’s Sebastian? I hope he didn’t go out and try to rescue people all on his own.”

“He seems the type who would,” said Malcolm.

“Because he is. And it will get him killed.”

“But it will be such a lovely story, Hawke!” said a smooth voice from the doorway.

Marian stopped her own pacing to place her hands on her hips. “Not that I don’t love you, Varric, but why are you here? And where is Sebastian?”

“I’m right here,” said the prince in question as he followed Merrill and a beardless dwarf—Varric, Malcolm assumed—inside the room. “I found Varric and Aveline outside. They were looking for you.”

And behind Sebastian was a tall woman with a set to her jaw that made Malcolm believe she could accomplish anything she wanted through the application of brute force. Judging from the armor she wore and moved about in with grace, she had the musculature to back it up, and he hoped she never had the occasion to bash him with the shield she carried. Then he wondered if she or Teyrna Cauthrien would win in a fight. If they all lived through this, he’d have to see it happen.

“Hawke,” said the woman, “I need you to come with me.”

“Us,” said Varric. “We need you to come with us.”

Malcolm wondered if he should point out that Marian was busy. 

Marian frowned. “Why? I’m sure whatever’s happened, you can take care of it, Aveline.”

“I would, normally. But the Arishok has...” Aveline grappled with finding the right words.

Varric helped her out. “Flipped his shit. He’s taking over the city. By force, in case you assumed his way with words swayed everyone to convert to the Qun.”

“Right _now_?” asked Marian. 

“Should I tell him it’s a bad time?” asked Varric.

“I’d love to see his face if you did, but no.” Her frown deepened, and for the first time, Marian appeared truly troubled. “Why now? I mean, aside from this being an incredibly inconvenient time, given we’ve got friends in the Fade battling a demon or three, why has he snapped now? It isn’t like he hasn’t been on the edge of losing his shit for months. Nothing’s changed that I’m aware of. So why now?”

“I believe it’s because of me,” came a voice Malcolm had heard quite a few times before. Usually, on a ship. A pirate ship and was it really possible that Isabela had shown up right then?

It was. Isabela strode through the door, seeming as if she had not a care in the world, if one hadn’t spent any significant amount of time with her. Having interacted with her at length for days on her ship, though work and conversation, Malcolm could tell Isabela was incredibly worried. Her long steps weren’t her normal walk—it was urgency.

“Isabela!” Merrill clapped her hands together and beamed. “You came back!”

“Of course I did, kitten,” Isabela said, and greeted the shorter woman with a kiss on the top of her head. “I couldn’t stand being away from you. Or from the mountains of gold Hawke seems to stumble upon in her adventures.”

“You!” said Aveline, who jabbed a finger at the pirate and then marched straight for her. “I know this had something to do with you. I’m going to—”

Isabela held up her hands, as if mere hands could stop Aveline. “Calm your tits, big girl. This can be fixed. I have the artifact the Arishok is looking for—”

“Artifact?” asked Marian.

“Rumor is the Arishok has been looking for a qunari artifact this whole time,” said Varric. “The Tome of Koslun. Turns out Rivaini stole it.”

“I can give it back,” said Isabela. “Took me this long to track it down, but I have it. All we have to do is get Hawke to give it back to the Arishok, he fulfills his duty to the Qun, and then he heads back to Par Vollen. Everybody’s happy.”

“Wait! Wait.” Malcolm could barely wrap his mind around the fact that Anders, his apprentice, and Líadan were fighting a demon in the Fade, much less there now being countless qunari marauding outside, bent on converting the entirety of Kirkwall to the Qun by force. What really blew his mind was how casual Marian and her friends were acting toward it. Well, except for Aveline. She seemed to regard things with proper gravity. “The Arishok is... you expected this?” he asked Marian.

“Not now, obviously, but the signs were there.”

He rubbed at his eyes, hoping that when his hand came away, this rapidly-forming nightmare would be over. It wasn’t. “There’s really a bunch of qunari out there, laying waste to the city, converting everyone, and killing those who refuse?”

“Pretty much, yes,” said Varric.

“So, not only do I need to worry about the demon killing Líadan, the babe, or both, but I also need to worry about the qunari doing the same?” Because if he needed anything, it was something else to worry about.

“I highly doubt the qunari would kill you,” said Isabela. “They don’t waste a thing. You have a warrior’s strength, so if you didn’t convert willingly, they’d use _qamek_ to wipe your mind. In the end, you’d still serve the Qun.”

His fate mattered the least in this, however—though at least Cáel would be safe. “Líadan? Our child?”

“Líadan would be killed if she did not immediately submit,” said Isabela.

“They leash their mages,” Malcolm said, recalling what Sten had said of qunari treatment of mages, a long time ago. “They even cut out their tongues. She would never submit.” Nor would he want her to.

“I know.” Isabela’s reply had been rather quiet, the same choice lurking behind her eyes. Líadan was a kindred soul to her, for Isabela would never submit, either.

Malcolm faced Marian, the one person who seemed to have a chance at throwing the destruction of Kirkwall and its population off-course. “If you really have that sort of influence over the Arishok, you should go stop him.”

“She does,” said Varric. “The Arishok called her _basalit-an_.”

Malcolm frowned. “Which is?”

“It’s the equivalent of trash, but _nice_ trash,” Marian said with a sigh. “I believe it’s a compliment.”

“It is.” Varric seemed ineffably pleased. “Broody told us. It means you’re a worthy foe. The important part is that the Arishok will speak with you when he won’t talk to anyone else not of the Qun.”

Marian traded a glance with Sebastian, and then said, “If it will keep the Arishok from continuing his takeover, I suppose it’s better than doing nothing.”

“You’re going to listen to her?” asked Aveline.

“Have you got a better idea?” Marian paused to give Aveline space to answer, but none came. “No? No. Then we’ll go with Isabela’s until you come up with one, all right?” She ran a hand through her dark hair, tugging on its ends before she let go. “How bad’s the fighting outside?”

“Bad.” Varric scanned the room and finally seemed to remember the sleeping mages on the floor, who just happened to be having their own battle in the Fade. “Very bad. You should probably take this little party of yours downstairs, as far downstairs as you can safely go, and board everything up behind you.”

Which was all well and good, but Malcolm distinctly remembered taking a shortcut from Darktown up through the Amell estate’s cellars. “Why not in front of us?”

“Wouldn’t be wise to cut off an escape route,” said Varric. “I doubt the qunari will bother with Darktown at first. Seems like they’re focusing on Hightown and gathering the nobility in the Viscount’s Keep. Then they’ll probably work from the top down when it comes to forcing everyone to convert. You know, if Rivaini’s plan doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work,” said Isabela. 

There were clattering footsteps downstairs, swearing in a language Malcolm recognized as Tevene, and more swearing in the common tongue. Then the people they heard were clomping into the room. Carver and the strangely-tattooed elf behind him looked equally surly, and both shot scowls in Isabela’s direction as soon as they realized she was there.

“Nice to see you, too,” said Isabela.

“The fighting has grown worse,” the elf said in a deep, very serious voice. Malcolm reckoned it was the most serious voice he’d ever heard in his life, and that included the likes of Duncan, Wynne, and Riordan. “Soon, the qunari will begin a house-to-house search for people to convert. We must get to the Keep as soon as possible. If anyone is to remain here, they must hide.”

“Varric already told us, Fenris,” said Marian. “We’ll need to carry the sleepers down to the cellars, and you and Carver give us two more sets of strong arms to help.” She pointed over at the grumbling, even more deeply scowling Carver without looking. “Shut it, Carver. It will go faster if you help.”

“Sure, _now_ you want my help,” he said.

“Could you be any more petulant?” asked Aveline.

“Junior? I’m almost certain,” said Varric.

“Let’s get moving,” said Marian, who glanced around the room that felt more cramped by the minute with the amount of people who’d crammed inside. “Aveline, you and Carver start bringing Anders down to the cellars. Go to the lowest part, just before the level where it technically turns into Darktown. Fenris and Cullen, if you two could please get Feynriel, and Sebastian, if you could help Malcolm with Líadan, I think we can get everyone down there in a reasonable amount of time.”

After those carrying Anders and Feynriel had gone, Malcolm approached where Líadan lay on the floor. Then he bent and gently lifted her upper body by under her arms. “If you could get her legs,” Malcolm said to Sebastian. “You lead the way, because I’m still not entirely sure about navigating down there.”

“Of course,” said Sebastian, and he lifted Líadan as gently as Malcolm had.

All right, so he was beginning to see whatever it was Marian saw in him beyond the shiny prince bit.

As Malcolm and Sebastian started down the first of many sets of stairs, Malcolm heard Marian directing Merrill and Bethany to grab supplies—food, water, assorted sundries, potions, blankets—and insisting to her mother that, yes, she did need to hide like everyone else because, no, she would not be converting to the Qun today or any other day.

The sounds of fighting, which had grown louder as they planned, grew softer once more as they all descended into the lowermost cellar of the Amell estate. As for where to put the mages, Aveline and Carver had found the smallest, most walled-in, out of the way room. Hastily stacked storage crates lined one wall, while nothing but dust and cobwebs lined the rest. Marian rolled her eyes at Carver when she noticed Anders had been placed on the bare stone floor, and she quickly spread the few blankets she carried before rolling Anders onto them, and then she signaled for the others to place Feynriel and Líadan down on them as well.

None of the sleeping mages had so much as twitched through the entire move, and it unnerved Malcolm at how unnatural it seemed. Sebastian moved away quickly enough to speak with Marian in urgent tones, but Malcolm stayed kneeling next to Líadan. He brushed some of the hair that had fallen over her eyes out of her face, recalling the time he’d done that before, in what seemed like an age ago, and she’d woken and used lightning to send him across the room for it. He almost laughed at the memory, at how unsure and reluctant and blind they’d both been. Once, he wouldn’t have traded it for anything, but now he’d trade it for the assurance that she would be okay.

A trace of rum and salt tinged the musty air as Isabela knelt next to him, her arm already slung around his shoulders, her effusive ways not having changed in the least. “A little bird told me you’d gone and gotten yourself hitched,” she said.

“You’ve a remarkably well-informed little bird,” he said, unable to remain entirely grim at hearing the open friendliness in Isabela’s voice.

“Well, despite the two of you having chained yourselves irrevocably to the dull anchor of being official—unless you employ an assassin, and then I’d have to do some assassinating of my own—my offer still stands. I thought I should let you know.”

“That’s remarkably open-minded of you.” Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was talking about how Isabela’s predilections knew no bounds, or how optimistic her statement was for assuming that this entire thing would turn out just fine.

“She’s a fighter. She and our kitten are made of the same stuff, stronger than the strongest Llomerryn rum. She’ll come through this.” Fingers calloused from dagger grips and tying knots in lines aboard ships gently moved the last piece of hair from over Líadan’s closed eyes to tuck it behind her ear. Isabela’s dexterous hands had been as gentle as his had, Malcolm realized, and he wondered how much Líadan and Isabela had talked with each other aboard ship, and how close they were as a result. Closer than he’d assumed, it appeared, and he wondered if Líadan had missed their brief, yet more important than he’d thought, friendship. 

“And then,” Isabela said as she sat back on her heels, removing her arm from around Malcolm’s shoulders, “you both will take a vacation with me aboard my ship. When I have a ship. Because I will have a ship again, and you two _must_ visit. You’re both still delectable.”

“Isabela, flirt later,” said Marian. “We need to get to the Keep. Sebastian and Malcolm can’t set barriers and block doorways until we’re back upstairs.”

“You think about my offer,” Isabela told Malcolm, and then stood up soundlessly, reminding him how deadly she could be, if she chose.

Though Isabela left the room along with Sebastian, Marian remained. “Malcolm, you’ll need to stand guard outside, with Sebastian.”

“Right.” His reply was barely audible. He understood the reasoning. He agreed with it. But if something went wrong, he didn’t want to miss any of the last moments left of either of their lives. The ability to articulate his thoughts didn’t manifest, and he shot a panicked look down at Líadan, even as he shakily stood up.

A firm grasp on his upper arm steadied him, and he glanced over to find Leandra Hawke standing next to him. “I will come get you myself, should anything go wrong,” she said, her eyes rife with the painful reminiscence of past experience. “I have aided my late husband with grim tasks before—Fade complications and difficult births, though not both at the same time. Yet, I know... I know what to look for.”

“Thank you.” It was an automatic, rote reply, because he had no idea what else to say.

Everything was so far out of his realm of knowledge and experience that he still felt useless. The most he could do was stand and watch, and even then, unless he scrunched up in a corner, he’d physically be in the way, because unlike Cullen, he couldn’t even stand vigil. He couldn’t fight alongside them, alongside her, like he should be. It didn’t help that Bethany had grown increasingly panicked, looking more and more out of her element, desperate for help. Malcolm glanced at her, and her face was even more plaintive than before. He began to regret going along with Líadan’s rejection of asking Emrys and Marethari for help. 

From the doorway, Malcolm heard someone clear their throat, and looked over, expecting to see Sebastian or Carver, but Bodahn stood there, Malcolm’s shield held in his hands.

“You’ll need this, I presume?” Bodahn asked, slightly extending it toward Malcolm. “My son took the liberty of enchanting it, but he didn’t say what for. Just that it would help, if needed.”

After one last, long look at Líadan, Malcolm stepped over and carefully removed it from Bodahn’s hands. “Let’s hope I don’t have to use it, but please tell Sandal I said thank you.” Malcolm really wasn’t sure how long he and Sebastian could hold against qunari warriors if they got down here. Sten had been just a lone qunari, and an absolutely devastating force on the battlefield. Maybe if they brought Merrill out at the first sign of trouble they could do better, but it was best if she remained with the others, she and Bethany making a final, calamitous combination for any qunari stupid enough to go into the room. 

Malcolm left the room just in time to hear Marian ask, “Wait, where _is_ Sandal?” from outside the door.

Bodahn, having followed Malcolm out, wrung his hands together now that they were free of the shield. “He refused to come down, even after he finished with the prince’s shield. He insists on remaining upstairs.”

“After what I saw in the Deep Roads,” Carver said from the bottom of the old wooden stairs, “Sandal can more than take care of himself.”

Marian nodded at her brother. “He could probably take on the Arishok.”

“Technically, Hawke, anyone could take on the Arishok,” said Varric.

“But not win. Sandal could win.”

Bodahn’s watery eyes were aghast as he regarded each of them, clearly not believing their opinions of his own son. “I can’t leave him alone up there.”

“I’ll stay with him,” said Carver. “Someone has to cover the cellar entrance from above, anyway.” Leandra immediately shouted objections from the smaller room, but Carver shrugged them off. “I’ll be fine, Mother. Really. I’ll just hide behind Sandal. He’ll say ‘boom’ and everything attacking us will explode. Or something like that. Not sure how exactly it works, but it works.”

It took a little more convincing from Carver, along with additional convincing from Marian and eventually Bethany—who seemed grateful for the distraction—but Leandra eventually came around enough to voice agreement with the plan. It was grudging agreement that would mean arguments later, if there was a later, but agreement nonetheless. While Merrill stayed behind to guard the doorway of the room where the other mages, Cullen, and Leandra had holed up, Sebastian and Malcolm followed the others upstairs. 

While Sebastian’s farewells exchanged with those going to the Keep—especially his quiet, yet fervently spoken words with Marian—were pained, Malcolm was eager to run back down the steps to return to as close to Líadan’s side as circumstance allowed. His place was by her, guarding her from whatever he could since he could do nothing about the demon that hunted her. He understood that Sebastian seemed to think his place was with Marian, but her argument that he was practically the last Vael left alive kept him from disregarding her wishes and going with her.

“All right, off you go,” Carver said to Marian, who ran out the door, with Isabela, Fenris, Varric, and Aveline close behind. “And down you go, princes.” He smirked at that, as if he’d wished to say something like it for ages. Judging from the glare Sebastian shot him, Malcolm figured he wasn’t far from the truth.

“He doesn’t like you, I take it?” he asked Sebastian as they barred the first door before shoving various pieces of abandoned furniture behind it.

“I’m not sure if Carver likes anyone, including himself.” Sebastian gave the massive armoire a final pat and headed for the door leading to the next set of stairs. “But, no, especially not me. He doesn’t believe I’m doing right by his sister. He thinks I’m stringing her along.”

Malcolm frowned as he shoved a crate up behind the second door as Sebastian finished barring it. “Marian mentioned something about marriage, so I’m not sure how that would be stringing her along—oh. The chaste thing.” 

“It’s still a marriage.”

He finished stacking the last heavy crate they could find, and then headed for the next door and steps. “I suppose.” He didn’t like the creaking coming from the stairs as they descended, which only grew louder and more frequent with each level they passed.

When Sebastian threw the bar down behind the third door, it smacked loudly into its place from the force he used. “There’s no ‘suppose’ about it. It’s still a marriage in Andraste’s eyes.”

Malcolm couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. A hereditary prince, who was practically the last of his line, could not afford to have a marriage that lacked heirs, and certainly not by choice. “So you’re remaining in the Chantry, then? Are lay brothers allowed to marry, chaste or otherwise?”

“It has nothing to do with my service to the Chantry. The Grand Cleric technically released me from those vows some time ago. It has everything to do with the vows I took, which I will not break.”

“To... not have sex again? Ever?” He poked at the wood framing surrounding the doorway, and the door itself, wondering if the dampness that clung to his clothes down here had rotted the wood through. He decided to leave it to fate. If the qunari came down this far and were determined, they’d break down the door either way. Rotted wood would just make the inevitable happen faster.

“To take none but Andraste as my bride.”

“Then you can’t marry Marian, and Carver is totally right.”

“No, there’s more to it than that.”

Seemed pretty clear to Malcolm, though he supposed Sebastian could be following Andraste’s example, in his mind, since she’d been the Maker’s bride, but also Maferath’s wife. “Is it like with Andraste, the Maker, and Maferath?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, not sure if your tutors covered this, but Andraste had at least three sons with Maferath, which means they had sex at least three times, which also makes it a very not chaste marriage.”

“I took a vow.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Sebastian’s back, wondering how Marian had not strangled him by now due to his obstinacy. Were he in Carver’s place, he’d be just as angry. He waited until they’d gone through the last door and were in the middle of blocking it off before he spoke up again. “Are you going to retake your hereditary position as Prince of Starkhaven?”

“That I am. I just do not know when.”

“It’ll require heirs to pass on. You can’t put that solely on Meghan, and even if you could, you can’t assume that every one of your siblings will be able to have children.”

“I’ll not break my vows.”

Malcolm gave him a quizzical look. “You do realize babies aren’t magically delivered to your doorstep by griffons, right?”

“Is that what humans believe?” came Merrill’s voice from the bottom of the stairwell. 

Sebastian rolled his eyes and muttered something about ‘always with the griffons with her’ under his breath. Then he called out, “It’s just what children were once told, Merrill.”

“Oh.” She sounded vaguely disappointed. “Has the practice stopped because the griffons went extinct?”

Sebastian sighed. “Don’t you have something else you should be doing? Something magic-related, perhaps?”

“Just watching and patrolling. Because of what Anders said, I’m trying to stay out of the room, but Bethany keeps asking for advice, and she’s so overwhelmed I keep trying to help. She and Ser Cullen wanted to make sure the noises they heard were you to and not qunari.”

“Worry not,” said Malcolm. “I’m not converting to the Qun pretty much ever. The qunari don’t take kindly to chatty princes, I’ve noticed.”

Merrill giggled, causing Malcolm’s head to spin because _blood mage_ , and went back inside the smaller room. With the last upper door blocked off, Malcolm and Sebastian set to moving crates and anything else heavy they could find in dusty corners of the lowest cellar. Malcolm had taken a second to peek into the room, only to find the situation much the same: everyone either sleeping and still, or awake and worried. It was easier to concentrate on positioning the crates so they had something to shove in front of the room’s door if the qunari made it this far. 

Then they’d moved and stacked and surveyed all they could, cataloging every nook and cranny, every spider and spider web, every skittering beetle and mouse, and the only thing they had left to do was stand guard. It was boring and tedious and did nothing to help Malcolm’s rising panic. He really didn’t think Marian—or anyone, short of the other two people who comprised the triumvirate that led the Qunari—could convince the Arishok to stop whatever it was he was doing. Qunari didn’t work like that, not in his experience. He hoped he was wrong, because if he wasn’t, Líadan was guaranteed to die when the qunari found them. 

He settled himself on one of the crates, shield propped on one side, within easy reach, and his sword rested across the tops of both his legs. With how they’d set up, at least they’d have warning of any approaching qunari. Unlike in the house, the sounds of fighting they’d heard there were nearly entirely muffled down here, and it was almost reassuring.

“I’m not angry with you,” said Sebastian.

“I didn’t think you were. Maybe a bit frustrated, but not angry. The truth tends to do that when it bludgeons you.”

The other prince had taken out his bow, but had yet to string it. “I am in a predicament. It will require much prayer to find the right path.”

“I don’t envy you, that’s for sure.” Though, Malcolm believed the path was quite clear since the Grand Cleric had released Sebastian from his vows. Most people didn’t get released from their vows _ever_ , yet it seemed Sebastian would take only a pardon from Andraste herself before he would believe he was allowed to choose a new path.

Sebastian nudged at Malcolm’s shield with his boot. “You have not been in an enviable position either, a Grey Warden as you are.”

“Definitely not a career path I’d recommend to kids.” Or to anyone, really, with how gloomy it was, plus there was the retirement plan that consisted purely of death.

“It’s a work that isn’t without its appreciation from others, what Grey Wardens do. Those of us in the Free Marches, we could do nothing but watch and wait, unable to do anything to fight the Blight in Ferelden. You faced it, looked it in the eye, elbow-deep in blood and the taint.”

Malcolm furrowed his brow as he tried to think of a situation where they’d been literally that deep in blood, but came up empty. “I don’t think we ever waded in quite that much blood. Possibly the taint, given the Deep Roads are covered in it.”

“In any regard, in the end, I have you to thank for not dying of blight.”

“Not me, personally. I mean, maybe you would if you got charged by a darkspawn and I killed it before it can get to you. But, if I’d been by myself during the Blight, it’d be darkspawn you’d be fighting here in Kirkwall, and not qunari.”

Sebastian chuckled as he carefully examined each limb of his bow. “You take compliments the same way as Carver—horribly.”

“I do know that’s an insult. Bethany’s used it before.”

“And yet your behavior hasn’t changed?”

“I said _before_ , not _often_.” 

Sebastian chuckled again. 

Malcolm glowered at him, and said nothing. Real princes, he decided, were jackasses, and the jackass sitting next to him could stew in his own silence for all he cared. And it was quiet, for a time, each of them awash in their own thoughts and fears as they examined and re-examined their weapons for deficiencies. Slowly, the thumps and shouts occurred more often, and some were less muffled. As a precaution, they shut the door to the small room, but still didn’t put anything in front of the door. Not yet, not when the greater danger still remained within, from the possibility of the sloth demon, or even another demon, taking possession of one of the mages.

Somehow, closing the door made everything a lot more dire.

“Would you like to pray with me?” asked Sebastian.

Maker help him, he was sincere. “Not really the praying type. Not in the past couple years, anyway. Sorry.” He might have prayed, before the Blight. Perhaps even during the Blight. But not after everything that had happened lately. Not after watching what’d happened to Velanna, after the great lengths the Divine had gone to in trying to capture Morrigan, not after the likes of Renaud had been allowed to remain Knight-Vigilant for any amount of time. The idea of the Chantry, at its most basic, he believed he could believe in. The idea of what it’d been when he was a child, he could believe in, and wished he still did. 

“No apology necessary,” said Sebastian, who still sounded sincere. “Though the Chantry encourages it, not all find the solace they require in prayer, given the Maker has turned away from us.”

“If Andraste gave the others some help in the Fade, I might change my views.”

To Sebastian’s credit, he didn’t chuckle, and yet that frustrated Malcolm more. He didn’t want this stranger, well-meaning as he was. He wanted one of his brothers. No, not even them. He wanted to hug his son close, or Maker damn it, he wanted a hug from his mother. It didn’t even matter which one, birth or adoptive, he just wanted the comfort. He wanted to be convinced that everything would be all right. 

Well, then neither Eleanor nor Fiona would do, since neither of them were ones to hide the truth of any situation. He reckoned they’d at least give him a hug, right before they told him that they were probably completely screwed.

Malcolm propped his sword next to his shield, leaned his back against the wall of the room, pulled his legs up onto the crate, and then rested his head on his knees. 

“Everything will be all right, in the end,” said Sebastian.

Malcolm didn’t move his head, but did give Sebastian the side-eye. Could he read minds? “Do you really believe that?” he asked out loud.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate. “I do. After all that’s happened to your family, I don’t believe the Maker could be so cruel as to take away anyone you have left.”

Having fought a Blight up close, and an Archdemon eye-to-eye, Malcolm wasn’t so convinced. The Maker had helped create darkspawn and Blights, Tevinter culpability or not. “I’ll believe in your belief.” It was the politest thing he could think to say.

Sebastian’s resulting laugh was rueful instead of derisive. “Then let’s hope I’ve enough faith for the both of us. The Maker’s mercy is not a precept I’ve much a foundation left in. The deaths of my family at Starkhaven, it eroded much. Perhaps knowing my sister lived will help with—” He stopped speaking at hearing the door creak open, and both of them turned expectantly.

Leandra Hawke stood in the doorway, her arms at her sides, and her expression inscrutable. “Malcolm, you should come inside.”

Merrill slipped out behind Leandra, staff in hand, as if to take over Malcolm’s guard duty.

His mind tried to assure the rest of him that since they hadn’t heard any alarming noises from the room, that all was well, and everyone was still asleep, and most importantly, not abominations. Yet when he got to his feet, his legs felt leaden, and as he sheathed his sword, he nearly had to force himself to step forward. 

He regretted it.

In the tiny room, Bethany was practically in tears, a couple empty lyrium potion bottles beside her, and Cullen looked rather determined as he walked toward the prone mages. Most importantly—and alarmingly—his hand was on his sword’s grip. Malcolm distinctly recalled that Cullen had told him it was time to worry when said sword was drawn. 

Worried, he looked toward Líadan, who wasn’t as still as she’d been when he’d left. She wasn’t writhing, not like he’d been told someone fighting a possession would be, but every once and a while, she’d wince. Then he saw what Cullen must have seen: as quick as a blink, a change advanced and retreated, the grey, gnarled skin that meant abomination formed and faded, only to repeat the process moments later.

“No, absolutely not!” he heard Cullen say. “Get him out of here. Now.”

“What? No!” There wasn’t a chance in the Void he’d leave, not if Cullen suspected something was going wrong. Not if Cullen had to—not if the templar had to use his sword. “I may not be able to do it, but the least I can do is witness it.” He didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t abandon her. If Cullen believed she was possessed, there was still a lot of _her_ there; she wasn’t completely twisted and changed, like had happened to Velanna’s body. Yet, he couldn’t deny the changes that appeared and disappeared, changes to her features that meant a demon had gotten in there. 

The Knight-Captain stood over Líadan, and Cullen’s look toward Malcolm was one of far more sympathy than Malcolm would have expected from any templar, especially the templar he’d come across during the Blight. Then again, it had been a long time for all of them. “Believe me when I say that you would be better off not witnessing this.”

“She wouldn’t be better off. I’m staying.” If this happened, he would never forget. He would never forgive, though he wasn’t sure who would need forgiveness.

When Cullen finally drew his Sword of Mercy, it took Malcolm everything he had not to draw his own sword and run the man through. When Sebastian’s strong hand fell on Malcolm’s shoulder, he couldn’t say whether it was for comfort or to restrain him. Probably a measure of both, he realized, when Sebastian began to pray. “She should see fire and go towards the light,” came the whisper, but Malcolm didn’t want to hear it. He tried to shake off Sebastian’s hand, but despite the fervent praying, Sebastian’s grip remained strong.

The last grim twist of Líadan’s features faded, and left her to her elven self. Relief surged through Malcolm, but then her body seized again, her back arching upward. 

Healing magic already glowing around her fingers, Bethany nearly shoved Cullen out of the way in her haste to kneel beside Líadan. Cullen was all but stone, wavering only slightly and managing to keep his sword in place over Líadan’s chest. He did not, however, plunge the blade downward. Bethany looked up toward her mother, her eyes wide in the panic of someone entirely out of their realm of knowledge, yet responsible for whatever the outcome would be. 

“The baby’s coming, isn’t it?” Leandra asked softly.

Before Bethany could finish her nod, Malcolm said, “No! She can’t now! It’s too soon if there’s no one here to help!” Anders had told them the outcome if they didn’t have another healer well-trained in the healing arts instead of side-trained. Bethany wasn’t a bad healer. She just wasn’t specialized, like Anders or Wynne or any number of mages who focused on healing, such as Keepers like Emrys or even Marethari, who were uselessly outside the city. Close and yet frustratingly far way. “You have to stop it,” he said to Bethany, more a plea than anything.

It was Cullen who took up the answer. “If she finishes a transformation into an abomination, the child’s only chance of living will be outside the womb, too soon or not.” He did not look hopeful that matters would turn out otherwise. “And the child _must_ be out before the final change.”

He would lose one or he would lose both and Malcolm couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “You can’t... You can’t expect me to decide, not—”

“No, I cannot.” Cullen’s tone was both tempered and weary. “In the end, it is not your decision to make. It is a templar’s duty. The abomination must be stopped, and the child saved, if even that is possible.”

Malcolm didn’t know whether he felt grateful or enraged that Cullen had plucked the choice from his hands, just like that. But maybe there were other choices, other ways, something that could save them both. 

Leandra’s sad look upon him told him no. The tears accompanying Bethany’s futile attempts at healing didn’t reassure him, and neither did her whispers that they should have gotten a Keeper. 

Before he could do anything stupid, Sebastian pulled him out of the room and shut the door. Malcolm nearly hit him, but caught himself, changing the course of his fist to glance off the wall instead of punching the other man. It stung, even through his gloves, but the pain in his knuckles was nothing compared to what was happening, what _would_ happen, what he could do absolutely nothing about except dread.

“It’s going badly, isn’t it?” Merrill asked softly.

Neither of them had a glib reply. When it became clear Malcolm didn’t have one at all, Sebastian said, “Yes. It is.”

Whatever question Merrill was going to ask was cut off by the sounds of feet running up from the tunnels that led from Darktown. Before Malcolm even knew he had it out, Sebastian had his bow strung and an arrow nocked, while Merrill had shifted her stance to be more balanced with her staff out and ready. Eager for the distraction, Malcolm lifted his shield and drew his sword, doing his best to focus on whatever threat would exit from the tunnel, and not using his shield to bash the door open and use his sword on Cullen before Cullen could use his sword on his wife. He closed his eyes briefly. Abomination. Not wife.

He couldn’t make himself believe it.

The footsteps got closer. “Can you immobilize them, Merrill?” asked Sebastian.

“I will,” she said. “Malcolm, can you go and bash them with your shield like Aveline does?”

“I can only hope to bash as well as I’ve heard she can,” he replied. 

“I think you’ve got enough anger to work out that you might,” said Sebastian.

Then the footsteps were there, and a dwarf ran through, the mark of the Carta on his armor, followed by two elves. Two Dalish elves, both of whom Malcolm knew, and he had never been so thankful to see in his entire life. If he hadn’t been so stunned, he would’ve dropped his weapons out of his relief. 

The dwarf pointed an angry finger in Merrill’s direction. “You tell Varric my debt to him is paid in full,” he said. “And that I will _never_ deal with the Dalish again, or may the Stone take me.” With that, he pushed past Emrys, and stalked by a shocked Marethari before disappearing in the tunnel leading to Darktown. 

“What are you doing here?” Malcolm asked, because he couldn’t even begin to explain how grateful he was at their presence.

“I asked for them to come,” said Merrill. “After Anders explained exactly what was going on—he would never specifically say, before—I knew that Bethany would need the help of more healers. Even someone of Anders’ ability would have needed aid. I know what you think, especially of Emrys, but they will help. Marethari is her Keeper, and Emrys is her grandfather. They won’t let her—or her child—die, not if it can be prevented.”

“Líadan was convinced they wouldn’t.”

Despite the dire situation, Merrill sounded the slightest bit amused. “She might be a little biased, you know.”

Had he been in a giving mood, Malcolm might have agreed.

Marethari showed no reaction to whatever she might have overheard. Emrys’ glare indicated he’d heard everything and did not care for it, or them. No, did not care for him, Malcolm reminded himself. Merrill had no glare directly her way, and so she quickly explained the situation to him. She told him about the sloth demon, about Feynriel being a half-breed—even Merrill used that word—Dreamer, and about Justice helping Anders in the Beyond. Through it all, Emrys’ glare did not relent, and Malcolm focused his own on the Keeper, and the delay in rendering aid inside the room. But he knew Merrill had Líadan’s safety in mind, and he kept telling himself that so he didn’t do anything he’d regret. Rather, anything else he’d regret. He still regretted not getting the Keepers sooner, and he still regretted walking into that room, only to see what he’d seen in his nightmares.

As if she’d noticed Malcolm’s impatience, Merrill headed for the room while still in the midst of her explanation.

“Why was I not informed?” Emrys asked when Merrill had mostly finished talking, and they’d ducked into the room. “Why did no one tell me of this demon? Of this Dreamer?”

This was a battle Malcolm knew he could fight. He might not win, but he’d land a few good hits. “She didn’t think it would be important to you.”

“How could she...?” Even as he spoke, Emrys had gone with Marethari to kneel with Bethany at Líadan’s side. Cullen hadn’t killed her, the baby hadn’t been born, and while her appearance warred with itself, she hadn’t yet turned. “How could she even think that?”

In the time Malcolm had known him, he’d never known Emrys to joke. “Is that a serious question?” Because he knew Emrys was clever, and yet the answer to his question was incredibly obvious.

Emrys shook his head in one violent action. “No. Of course she would assume—” He turned to look toward Malcolm and Merrill. “Why is she so stubborn?”

“From the looks of things,” Bethany said without breaking her concentration, “I believe she came by it honestly.”

Marethari summoned her magic and placed her hands over Líadan, while Emrys continued to cast about for a satisfactory explanation. “You.” He pointed at Malcolm. “How did this demon find her?”

He blinked, surprised that Emrys would even vaguely accuse him of having anything to do with the demon’s appearance, and then entirely not surprised because he was the human, which meant it was automatically his fault. “Feynriel somehow found her in the Fade, when she was sleeping. The demon was after him, first. He escaped it, and the demon decided Líadan would do.”

“How did he find her in the first place?” Emrys asked, his gaze having returned to his granddaughter, and magic finally formed around his fingers as he gently placed them on her forehead. They slid downward, carefully tracing her vallaslin, and for the first time, Malcolm saw the caring grandfather Líadan must have known when she was a child. “They did not know each other before this,” Emrys continued, his attention split. “It does not make sense that he would just stumble upon her in the Beyond.”

“Could it be the eluvian shard?” asked Merrill.

Emrys’ head snapped up. “What?”

“He saw it in my house before he succumbed to his trapped sleep. He... he touched it before I could stop him. He seemed stunned, but then he seemed fine afterward. It wasn’t until that night that he became trapped.”

“Was it from the same eluvian that killed Tamlen and tainted Líadan?”

“Yes.”

“So that was where he picked up her trail.” Emrys’ pronouncement was made more to himself than anyone else, and his attention went back to his granddaughter.

As Malcolm wondered how that would even work, Merrill said out loud, “Oh, that would make sense. Traces remaining from anyone who interacts with it, even in the smallest pieces, because that’s all you need, really. Just a piece.”

“Echoes,” said Emrys. “Enough of her that he would latch onto it in his desperation, without even knowing. The eluvians are connected, all of them, as are any of their users.”

Malcolm started. “Even if the user goes somewhere else other than Thedas? Say, for instance, _Setheneran_?” 

The word got Emrys’ attention. “Anywhere. Why _Sethen_ —no.” He dropped his gaze to Líadan. “There’s no time to talk about it now. We’ll speak about it later. Right now, we need to help this child.”

Malcolm wasn’t given the chance to ask whether Emrys meant Líadan or their daughter. With the addition of the two Keepers and the First, the tiny room had moved beyond cramped, and those people deemed non-essential to saving lives were sent outside, whether they liked it or not. Sebastian went down to guard the Darktown entrance, possibly to barricade it should it become necessary. Leandra, given her midwifery experience gained from helping her late husband, was asked to remain, while Malcolm made to leave.

Merrill, to Malcolm’s surprise, was sent out right after him.

He raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t help?”

“They... asked me to leave.”

The strange thing about Merrill, Malcolm thought, was how confident she was in her magic and her mission to preserve her people’s history, and yet when she spoke with her people, her confidence often wavered. “Why? You’re a trained First.”

“I was actively drawing the attention of the wrong sort of spirits.”

“Ah, yes. The curse of the strong mage.” Though he couldn’t imagine that Emrys or Marethari didn’t attract demons of their own, considering their own power.

“I imagine it’s more to do with the blood magic,” Merrill said so unassumingly that Malcolm almost missed it.

He had to take two looks at her after that, having entirely forgotten the blood magic detail. She was so not the picture the Chantry painted of a blood mage, all power-hungry and frightening and mind-controlling everyone into pointless violence until they all turned abomination, and then everything would go to shit. She seemed more the type to refrain from picking pretty flowers because it would kill them, and that would be sad. “I really have a hard time believing you’re really a blood mage.”

She raised her eyebrows in what looked to be excitement. “I could do some for you, if you need to see—”

“No! The Knight-Captain is right through that door!”

She smiled. “I know. I wasn’t really going to.”

“Not funny.”

“It was! Your face was wonderful. And it got your mind off your bondmate for a moment.”

He sighed.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “It’ll be all right. Emrys will save her.”

“I know he will, if it can be done at all. I just don’t think he’ll save our daughter, if she’s in danger.” From what Emrys had said, from how everyone acted, he would soon meet his daughter for the first time, only to say goodbye.

“Oh, he will. She’ll be his kin. He’ll remember that not only is she his granddaughter’s daughter, but his own daughter’s grandchild. It’s a Keeper’s duty to remember, and he is a very good Keeper.”

Malcolm actually felt the tiniest bit reassured, which he’d assumed an impossibility. “You’d have made a good Keeper, yourself. Just the right mix of wise and infuriating.”

Above them, the sounds of fighting grew louder, and could no longer be brushed off as outside the estate, or kept above the cellar levels—they’d definitely breached the first door. Malcolm’s moment of reassurance faded. Maybe they would all die, and not from what they’d assumed.

“It will be all right, _lethallin_ ,” said Merrill.


	68. Chapter 68

  
“I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save.”

— _Spirit of Brona_

**Líadan**

****The new flat-ear who wished to join the clan was infuriating, Líadan decided. It wasn’t that he didn’t try at learning a hunter’s skills, because he did, very earnestly. But earnestness only got you so far, and he’d reached the peak of his inability long ago. Yet he’d stuck around, two months of torture for her, despite repeated requests for him to find another area in which to train, and other than to rile her up with his comments, his questions, his _looks_ , she had no idea why. He had a good mind, and he was very strong, and Master Ilen had said more than once that the new elf would make a good smith if he chose to learn the craft.

If he didn’t go apprentice himself to Master Ilen soon, Líadan was going to throw him in the forge’s fire. Or shoot him in tender places with arrows. Or hit him with a rock. Or possibly strangle him with her bowstring. Or use her bow to knock some sense into him. Or—

“ _Lethallan_ ,” said Tamlen, interrupting the tirade she hadn’t realize she was saying out loud, “I think you should do something else with him, work out your frustration. You can, you know. He isn’t a flat-ear anymore—the reason the Keeper etched his _vallaslin_ a week ago was because Master Ilen accepted him as an apprentice.”

“What?” She drew up short. The _vallaslin_ had been obvious, but no one had bothered to tell her about the apprenticeship, especially not the particularly maddening Malcolm. “He what? Then why does he keep attending my class with the hunter apprentices? Why? Why must he torment me?” He’d far tested the limits of her restraint, and she wasn’t sure if she could be held responsible for what she did to him should he frustrate her again. “That’s it. I’m going to beat him to death with the ironbark I was going to give Master Ilen.”

“Creators, I swear if you couldn’t bring down deer like you do from so far away, I’d think you were blind. Do you even know where he is right now?”

“Probably planning ways in which to make my life miserable.”

Tamlen cocked his head to the side. “I suppose that would depend on which way you look at it. He’s talking to your father.”

“Why is he talking to my father?”

“Why else would he be talking to your father?”

Her hand slapped over her mouth in her surprise. Sylaise help him, the new elf wasn’t right in the head. It was the only possible answer. Granted, his confounding, infuriating nature aside, he was pleasant to look upon, he was bright, and his streak of impishness did not diminish his kindness. All right, so he had potential, but _still_. Her eyes flicked over to her best friend, who himself had bonded almost a year ago to a woman Líadan mostly felt was good enough for him. Any of the elves who’d expressed interest in Líadan before, Tamlen had never liked, and he’d done a good job intimidating those who hadn’t already been intimidated by Líadan. She expected Tamlen to be ready to have the same kind of talk with Malcolm.

Instead, he seemed pleased with the current turn of events. 

“Oh, you caught on, did you?” he asked, and then dodged the mostly-playful swing she took at him. “I rather like him, and I think you do, too, or you wouldn’t be this affected by him.”

She glared at him. Insufferably pleased.

“Giving me sour looks isn’t going to change the truth, _lethallan_.” 

She threw her hands in the air and walked away before she maimed her best friend, doing her best to ignore his laughs at her expense. By the time she got to the aravel she still shared with her father, only he stood outside tending to the fire, with Malcolm nowhere to be seen. Nuada smiled warmly when he saw her approach, and she didn’t miss the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

“I didn’t know you had a suitor,” he said.

“Neither did I.” Though her father’s chuckles were fond, it didn’t change the fact that it seemed so many of her clan were finding amusement at her expense. “What did he bring you? I can’t imagine it was a pelt, because he’s the worst archer I’ve seen in years—”

“It wasn’t a pelt. And being a bad archer doesn’t automatically make one a bad hunter. As much as we revere our bows, spears are nearly as good. As you well know, _I_ hunt with a spear, because while I can throw with remarkable precision, distance, and power, I am hopeless with a bow. You’re lucky you inherited your mother’s archery skills, _da’len_.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

To her surprise, her father let out a guffaw. “And yet you completely meant to insult the boy after your heart.” He put a loving arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “You really are your mother’s daughter—sometimes, a little too often. So you see, the good news about Malcolm is that it turns out he isn’t hopeless with a spear. He’s decent, he’s got a good arm, and I think eventually, with enough practice, he’ll be very good. Except Ilen already told me between the boy’s mind and his brawn, and what he’s managed to do as his apprentice thus far, I’m not to be stealing him. So, it seems he won’t be a hunter, even though we’ve discovered he isn’t hopeless.”

“Well, good for him.” She did try to make herself sound enthusiastic and sincere, and fell flat with both. She sighed when she caught her father half rolling his eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you should know. I wouldn’t want you walking around with the wrong assumption about the lad.” Nuada led her to the back of the aravel, where they stored some of their possessions, mostly hunting equipment, in an outside storage compartment.

“That he’s a few halla short of a herd? I’m not sure you’ve disproven that one.”

“I don’t disagree. You’re challenging enough that only a certain kind of young man would see that you’ve got yourself walled up, much less try to bash their way through it to see who you really are underneath.”

“I like my walls.”

“Which is why you cling to them so tightly.” Nuada shot her a small smile, and then opened up the compartment to lift out a bow. “So, it seems your infuriating young man has not only been paying close attention to things you’ve said in and out of your classes, and stories he’s gotten you to tell him, but also stories he’s gotten out of me, the Keeper, and I think even Tamlen and Merrill. Why do I think that, you ask?” He handed her the bow. “Tell me, whose bow does that look like?”

Líadan recognized it instantly. “Mamae’s.” But it couldn’t be her bow; the templars had destroyed it when she had lured the templar party away to protect Merrill, years ago. Líadan and her father had gotten there in time to help kill the last of them and see Merrill to safety, but there was nothing Keeper Marethari had been able to do for Gwenael’s wounds. She had wished she at least would’ve had the bow to remember her mother by, but it had been smashed to pieces by templar boots. She looked up at her father. “How?”

“He listened. He figured out how much you missed your mother—which was easy—but also how you felt about her bow being lost with her, that you didn’t even have that left of hers. Then he spoke with Ilen, and the Ilen guided him on how to craft one almost exactly like it. He actually did most of the work, so you can see why Ilen threatened me with bodily harm were I to steal his new apprentice. Good thing we never lack for hunter apprentices.”

It was true. The clans always had plenty of young Dalish children ready and willing to become clan hunters, but while they had enough willing to learn the other trades, they took special talent to meet with success. “I didn’t think he was listening,” she said out loud.

“Oh, he was. He’s smitten, for some crazy reason. If you’d just let yourself open your eyes for even a second, I think you’d realize you feel the same way. You might not know how you look at him, but I’ve seen it.”

She frowned. “I don’t look at him any certain way.” There was something else bothering her, something about the bow, how it was familiar, and yet not, and then familiar in a different way, which really made no sense at all. 

“Yes. Yes, you do. I think you should go speak with him, before the evening meal.”

Líadan was ready to argue, but recognized the look in her father’s eyes right away. Any argument she put forth would be shot down, and eventually she’d capitulate just to have it over with. She sighed again, having decided to speak with Malcolm, and yet not knowing what to _do_ with the bow. She couldn’t just carry it around in her hands, and she already had her own bow on her back.

Nuada solved the problem by taking her old bow from its sling on her back and putting it in the storage compartment. Then he gently took the bow she held in her hands and put it in the sling. “There. Now, go talk to him.”

She grumbled, but headed in the direction of the aravel Malcolm had been given, nonetheless. He’d been sitting by his own fire, but stood as soon as he noticed her walking toward him. Unwilling to have an audience, she took him by the hand and led him into the forest surrounding the Dalish camp. 

He gamely stumbled along behind her, still running that infuriating mouth of his. “Oh, so you’re going to kill me. Or kiss me. Or both. I’d say my plan went well.”

Before she could reply—though she hadn’t yet made up her mind which action she was going to take with him—two strangers stepped out between the trees ahead of them. How they’d gotten past the hunters on patrol, she had no idea, but she could take care of them. She dropped Malcolm’s hand, took out the bow, and strung it as they skidded to a stop.

“You are falling for a demon’s trap,” said the taller of the two humans. 

Líadan assumed they were humans. The one who’d spoken, his voice had been ethereal, and his appearance was... odd. His skin seemed cracked and broken, and blue the color of lyrium shone through the fissures, and had even entirely replaced his eyes. The young man beside him—barely more than a boy—had the refined features of an elf-blooded human. A half-breed. “You’re trespassing on Dalish land, humans,” she said to them. “Leave.” To emphasize her point, she plucked an arrow from the quiver on her belt and nocked it.

“Remember the sloth demon?” asked the younger man. “Torpor? He’s tricking you again, and he’s had so much practice that he’s gotten very, very good at doing so. He’s almost got you entirely fooled.” The human sounded sad, which confused her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re only trying to distract me. Now, leave.”

“That man beside you is not who you think he is. He is the demon. He must be killed,” said the glowing man.

Líadan glanced back at Malcolm, who shrugged, and she returned to the trespassers. “You are the ones who will be killed. I won’t warn you again.”

The strange glowing man sighed, and before she could even realize he’d moved, he’d snatched the bow from her hand and snapped it. Something in her mind snapped and she stumbled backward, right as the person she’d thought was Malcolm shifted into a sloth demon. Without looking at her, it charged at the glowing man. The younger man closed his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and the demon was thrust into the air to hang there.

The glowing man drew a well-honed sword. “We have been looking for you for quite some time, demon. Now you will be punished for your crimes.”

 ****It laughed, it laughed with Malcolm’s face, and Líadan remembered everything she had forgotten, except she could only see Malcolm’s face, Malcolm’s body, as Justice swung his sword and cut the head from the body. She swallowed her shouts, telling herself that it hadn’t been the real Malcolm. Malcolm wasn’t elven. Malcolm wasn’t here in the Beyond with the rest of them. He waited for her out in the land of the living, and she desperately wanted to go back there.

“He was well-hidden. We would not have found him without following you,” Justice said to her. “Had you not come to us when you did, he would have possessed you within days.”

Feynriel frowned. “Not of her own free will.”

“No. Her soul is tired.”

She glanced back through the trees at the Dalish camp they’d left behind. Her father was back there, alive. Though her mother was still gone, she’d at least had her father. Malcolm had been an elf, and so any of their children would have been elven and not elf-blooded. It was the uncomplicated life she’d wanted, one she could have with him, and it surprised her how much she yearned for it. “Can we leave now?” she asked out loud as she got to her feet. “Before I change my mind again and decide to stay.” It took her a moment to steady herself, her body having returned to how it was outside the Beyond, complete with being swollen with her child, and how it threw off her balance.

Feynriel’s frown still darkened his face. “The illusion should be gone by now. Torpor is dead. Líadan, you know it’s a dream. So it should have fallen apart, but it remains.”

Justice settled into a fighting stance and stared into the trees. “There is another demon. It is stronger than Torpor. We must prepare ourselves.”

Her father stepped out from the underbrush. No. It was the form of her father, but an illusion. An illusion that walked with the same easy amble of her father, an illusion that had smelled of the same mix of grass and pine as her father. An illusion, she told herself, over and over. Yet, repeating it did nothing to help disbelieve what her senses told her.

“Show us your true form, demon,” said Justice.

 _Please_ , Líadan thought. _I just watched them kill my bondmate. I can’t watch them kill my father. I can’t kill my own father._

Despite the thicket of trees between them and the Dalish camp, she could hear every sound that reminded her of contentment, of safety, of home.

_I can’t._

“Doesn’t this child wish to have her father’s pride?” asked the demon. “I can give that to you. I can give you the life you cannot have. I can return the lives of your father, your mother, and you can make them proud as you’ve always wanted.”

She closed her eyes, and her short fingernails dug into her skin as she squeezed her fists tight. “No,” she said out loud, despairing at how weak it sounded. She had to think of what was real—Malcolm, Cáel, their daughter. She had to remember them so she wouldn’t be ensnared here. “No,” she said again, this time with strength. “You don’t offer that. You can’t. He’s dead and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

When she opened her eyes, the demon had taken the form of her mother. Her heart jerked in her chest, the absolute want she’d had for the past months leaving her open and bare. “No,” she said again, but there was absolutely no committal within it. This yearning for her mother was multitudes stronger than the yearning she had for an easier life. The pride demon had quickly and easily plucked from her heart the desire the sloth demon had spent months futilely searching for.

“Is it your mother’s comfort you desire? Her approval and guidance? Her arms around you, her gentle voice assuring you of being loved, no matter what happened?”

 _I can’t_. “Mamae,” she whispered, a betrayal driven by her heart, and she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see what could very well break her.

Then the familiar arms were around her, wrapping her up in the warmth, in the scent of the elfroot in the salve her mother rubbed on her muscles after a long hunt, the steady beat of her mother’s heart lulling her into comfort, the constant rise and fall of her chest a reassurance that she would always be there. Every sense told her that this was her mother, and yet every one of those feelings her mother invoked in her would be denied to her own children if she fell for the demon’s very, very good ruse.

_I will not abandon them._

Líadan grabbed her mother’s—the _demon’s_ —shoulders and shoved her away. “You will not have me, spirit.”

It stumbled back one step, and then grinned at her. “Then I will take what you will not give, mortal.” 

The pride demon’s arms reached for her as before, wrapped around her in a mockery of a hug, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her mind felt squashed up against the walls of her skull, as if there wasn’t enough room anymore. The thoughts weren’t hers, and yet they were, and she wanted to rip the slimy tendrils from where they wrapped around her basest emotions. She dropped and rolled to her side, and then suddenly she could breathe again, and she took in great lungfuls of air.

Though she was right there, she couldn’t participate in the conversation between Justice and Feynriel. It was all she could do to keep breathing.

“I think she’s rid of it, for now,” said Feynriel.

“No,” said Justice. “This fight will not be so short.”

Justice was proven right. The demon leapt from the trees right into her, and Líadan was squeezed from the inside, her own thoughts and feelings bulging outward to nowhere as the demon sought a foothold within her. She held on even more tightly to who she was, to her own body, even as she fought for breath. Then a tendril delved deeper, and she felt a wave of pain unlike she’d felt before, and she curled inward as her entire abdomen seized. 

“It is after the child,” she heard Justice say, and the demon she fought didn’t even have the decency to let her scream. 

“No,” she said, but no sound came out, and her lungs burned at having so little air. She closed her eyes and shoved at it with all her strength, and she nearly wept at the sudden freedom.

The demon crashed through the trees, readying for another attempt.

“The child must escape. It will do this to protect itself. We must fight off the demon at least that long.”

“Or we could defeat it,” said Feynriel.

“We do not have the time. If our struggle shows in the mortal realm, the templar will kill her, without hesitation.”

Her eyes widened, and she mustered the energy to speak. “Cullen is going to kill me,” she said to them, unable to get up. “He’ll see my body changing back and forth between me and abomination and he’ll put an end to me like they did to Velanna.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise, but Anders informs me the outcome you predict is highly likely.” 

The demon sprang from the underbrush, and Líadan fought with a renewed fury, angry at what this demon had forced on her, on Malcolm, on their daughter, how she’d chosen stupidly by not setting aside her differences and asking Emrys and Marethari for help. Her own death was now certain, and because of her pride, her daughter’s was assured, as well. But she would fight, because it was all she had left. Her insides hurt from the ethereal pummeling of her soul fighting with the spirit’s, but she forced it out of her again. 

The brief victory was tainted by the realization that the pain rising and falling through her middle hadn’t gone away, the muscles underneath the skin covering her belly hard as ironbark.

“It is not just that you will die for this,” said Justice. “You did not succumb to the demon of your own free will.”

“I’m aware. It’s not comforting.”

“I’m sorry,” said Feynriel.

“As am I. Anders tells me that if you were given more time in the mortal realm, you may yet fight off the demon. I am inclined to agree. He also adds that they cannot use the Sword of Mercy until your babe is delivered.”

Líadan wondered if it would be the Sword of Mercy that would make the cut to deliver her child. She shuddered.

“There is not enough time for proper justice. I—we—regret this outcome.”

Líadan really hated pride demons. They certainly weren’t spirits. No matter what her lessons had taught, they were demons. The demon appeared in the trees and laughed, _laughed_ , before he flung itself at her again. She rolled to avoid it, but she was too slow and cumbersome, and in its true form, was too large to dodge. As she struggled with the pride demon for control of her body and mind in order to keep it from reaching the child she carried, she heard the sounds of more fighting. 

It had called to the other malevolent spirits who’d been disguised as her clan. She could hear their voices now, using the war cries of the Dalish as they fought Justice and Feynriel. 

She pushed outward, pressed with whatever will she could gather, and sent the demon tumbling out again. It retreated into the trees, regathering itself as the spirits wearing the masks of her clan battled with her true allies. Feynriel killed several of the clan elders with a sizable fireball and then began shifting the Beyond, causing elves to wink out of existence, most likely deposited to other parts of the Beyond. Justice cleaved several of the elves in half with his sword, reaping them as if they were nothing. She knew they should have been nothing to her, like they were to him, but she couldn’t ignore the faces, the voices that were all so familiar. They were everything. They were everything just as Malcolm was everything, as Cáel and their daughter were everything, as _she_ was everything, to herself.

Behind Feynriel, another joined the fight, striding confidently to the young man’s side. The newcomer was garbed in ancient elven armor Líadan had seen a Keeper display at an _Arlathvhen_ she’d attended as a child. The helm hid the person’s features, and the armor hid whether its wearer was male or female. The person was of enough height that she couldn’t even tell if it were elven or human.

Whoever—whatever—it was, shaped and changed the Beyond with ease, manipulating it as Dalish artisans did their crafts. Walls grown of root and earth sprouted between Líadan and the circling demon. When it found a gap and struck, she’d been able to gather enough strength to throw it from her body before her lungs had been emptied. Then the roots grew again, closer and denser, and Líadan realized the newcomer was a Dalish Keeper, as the armor had hinted. The roots continued to slow the demon down enough for her to catch her breath in between possessions, though it still managed to burst through to begin the fight anew. The cycle was without end.

“I’m not even that powerful!” she shouted in exasperation as it feinted at her again. The pain rippling through her abdomen had kept her low to the ground, sending her to her knees whenever she tried to walk more than a few steps, and the others were too occupied with fighting to help her stay upright.

“No, you are not,” the demon said as it retook its massive form when it collided with her, sending them both to the dirt. Bits of gravel clung to the skin of her cheeks as it yanked her head up to whisper in her ear, “It is not your body or soul I desire. I want what grows within. I want the new life.” His form changed and the familiar pressure on her lungs, on her mind, told her their internal struggle had resumed.

It took her longer to evict it, this time. She was tiring.

“You will not have her,” said the newcomer.

Líadan glanced over as she rolled with the demon’s impact against her. She knew that voice. Emrys. Her grandfather.

The _Arlathvhen_ , as a little girl, she remembered. She remembered his calm voice telling her of the ancient armor he’d guarded his entire life, and the ancestor before him, and before him. Remembered him allowing her to trace the etched symbols of Andruil and Mythal and one she had not yet learned in the greenish-colored metal, to even pull the helm onto her head, where it blocked her eyes and made her grandfather chuckle. _“You will grown into it yet,_ da’len _,”_ he said, tipping the helm upward so she could see his face once more. “ _Perhaps the Gift will manifest in you soon, and you may one day become its guardian as I have, Keeper of the relics and the clan.”_

_“But if I had the Gift, wouldn’t I become Keeper Marethari’s apprentice?”_

_“Does she not have an apprentice?”_

_“Oh, yes. Merrill.”_

_“You are my kin. Perhaps you would become my apprentice.”_

_“Only if I have the Gift.”_

_“Give it time. Not all show so young as you are.”_

Even then, Líadan hadn’t been sure if she’d wanted the Gift. Her mother had come to fetch her, having heard the tail-end of their conversation. She’d sent Líadan away with another hunter in order to speak with her father, but Líadan heard the beginnings of their argument nonetheless.

It had been the last time she’d truly felt the connection with Emrys as her grandfather.

Here, in the Beyond, Emrys did something, a slight motion with one of his hands, and the demon was wrenched from within with such force that it left her gasping.

“Even you cannot hope to defeat me soon enough,” the demon said to Emrys as it unfolded in its true form, looming over them all. “Time is your enemy here.”

“Time is irrelevant,” said a woman’s gravelly voice. “At least, to me.”

Breathing—feeling, _thinking_ —still difficult, Líadan turned her head as quickly as she could to see if what her ears told her was true.

It was. _Asha’belannar_ stood in the open space between Emrys and the demon. She exchanged a nod with the Keeper. “It has been some time, has it not?”

“It has,” answered Emrys. “Are you yet free?”

The corners of Flemeth’s eyes crinkled in both amusement and resignation. “No. Without an end, there can be no peace.”

“Then I continue my vigil.”

Flemeth acknowledged him with a slight lift of a sculpted brow. Then she said, “First, we must save your kin. Fate awaits them yet, and those fates do not involve dying by a Sword of Mercy wielded by a well-intentioned templar, such as they exist.” Flemeth swung to regard Líadan. “You understand, child, that had you the time, you would have defeated this—” she waved her hand and the demon froze “—inconsequence. But you and your daughter have not the time, so here I am.” Another wave of her hand and the demon shrunk in on itself, becoming smaller and smaller as it screamed before there was a pop, and it was gone. “Remember the favor I have done for you, when the time comes.”

Líadan wondered if it would have been better to make a deal with a demon, or if there was really any difference at all. So many owed debts to _Asha’belannar_ , and now she understood how they had been incurred.

Flemeth paid her no more mind and returned her attention to Emrys. “Our debt is settled?”

He gave her a slow shake of his head. “Only once you’ve let go of your sorrow.”

“Then our debt shall continue.” She nodded at him again. “Until such time, Keeper.”

A rift appeared in front of Flemeth, and before any of them could react, she sauntered out.

The fabric of the Beyond closed behind her, and the dream collapsed behind it.

Líadan woke to the fire of pain and a cacophony of shouts and orders. The tip of a Sword of Mercy rested over her heart, moving with her body whenever she writhed with cramps from her lower half.

“Remove your sword, templar,” said Emrys. “The demon was defeated.”

“But she gave in to—”

“She did not,” came Anders’ voice. “The demon made no offer. It only sought immediate possession.”

“That’s remarkably convenient, considering what we witnessed. It could be a cover.”

Emrys nearly growled. “Templar, I will not ask you again to remove your sword. Either remove it, or I will remove the arm that wields it.”

The sharp point came away from Líadan’s chest, though it brought her no relief, not with her reeling mind. The transition had happened more quickly and abruptly than she’d thought. She’d been flung from one fraught situation into another, her mind never given a chance to catch up, and her emotions leapt ahead and backwards and even sideways. Her breathing was ragged and harsh to her own ears, and whether it was from the confrontation in the Beyond or the birthing she was going through now, she didn’t know. Nor did it much matter at this point, not with how the sweat beaded on Bethany’s forehead, despite the coolness of the cellar—

Cellar?

Above them, there were ominous thumps, and beyond the roughly-built wall she could see in front of her, there were thuds and clangs and barely-muffled shouts. There was fighting out there, wherever this was. Emrys stood and walked over to the door to listen. Anders and Feynriel were already on their feet, apparently having awakened sooner than she had.

Bethany hovered beside Líadan, eyes bright with the fever of too much lyrium. Next to her knelt Marethari, and Líadan wondered if she was either still dreaming or had begun to hallucinate. Marethari’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, her brow heavy over them. It was the expression she wore on the rare occasion of performing a taxing, complicated spell. With her ability as it was, Marethari rarely faced a spell so troublesome.

“If the threat is over,” asked Bethany, “why hasn’t this stopped?”

“The demon’s attempt to forcibly possess Líadan is driving out the child. It started as a method of escape, and now it’s the course we’re all on.” Anders had taken the place abandoned by Emrys, his own healing magic adding to the light from Bethany and Marethari’s hands. “Once the birth process has started, it’s nearly impossible to stop. Qunari outside our door or not, this girl’s going to be born.”

“Could the child be possessed?” asked Cullen.

“The demon was killed, I believe. I mean, I’m fairly certain—”

“So there is a chance. We must take precautions.”

“How about we deliver the child alive first, and then decide if she’s a threat?” 

“You know what? I’m right here,” said Líadan. “I can hear you and none of you have told me what’s going on beside the completely obvious.” She winced as the pain built up again.

Anders swore under his breath, and then made several complicated movements with his hands. The end result was the pain fading away, replaced with a great deal of pressure. It was uncomfortable, and strange, but not unbearable. Having the haze, and the threat, of pain cleared from her mind made it remarkably easier to think. 

“Anders, tell me,” she said, relying on him since the most powerful healer in the room had taken a post next to the door, looking as if he’d rather leave to join the fighting.

“You already know it’s too soon,” he said, sounding almost detached and clinical. “And we really can’t know exactly how the demon’s repeated attempts to turn you into an abomination have affected the child’s health. To be honest, I’m preparing for the worst, and I’d suggest you do the same.”

She allowed her eyes to close as she gritted her teeth, fighting pain that couldn’t be soothed with any kind of magic. Dread marked every hint of progression of her labor, and knowing the likely dire outcome, she couldn’t let herself get excited or hopeful. She couldn’t let herself get anything at all, because the only thing they could tell her about Malcolm was that he was outside fighting the qunari trying to get inside, and the last time she’d acknowledged a need for comfort had nearly brought her to fall to a pride demon.

“You’re nearly there,” said Anders. “Not much longer.” 

She began to brace herself for the outcome Anders had predicted, wishing she had taken any number of other paths, instead of the one that had led her here. 

A gentle hand smoothed the hair on her head, and remained there as a light comfort. “You will be all right, _da’len_. You will get through this, I promise.” It was Emrys, not Marethari, not Merrill. Emrys, and yet Líadan couldn’t believe his words. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.

Then her concentration went elsewhere, because Anders told her to push, and she still hadn’t yet managed to truly believe she was having a child. It didn’t matter that they were nearly at the end of the process, that she was actively engaged in pushing the babe out, because she was in the midst of doing something she hadn’t believed she would ever do. Somehow, it kept it from becoming real, even as she experienced it. She vaguely heard Anders tell her one more, and then heard Bethany say, “There!” 

“Did I call it? Girl!” said Anders. “I’ve never been wrong yet.” In that moment, he sounded so much like the old Anders that it hurt.

“I’ve got her cleaned up,” said Bethany, who then thanked her mother for the water and clean rags she’d brought down.

Líadan opened her eyes to see Bethany cradling a tiny form in her arms, limp and unmoving and Líadan was fairly certain newborns were supposed to be crying by now. Whimpering, if they were the quiet sort. Her father had enjoyed reminding her that she’d come into the world squalling, and had never stopped. Her own daughter did none of those things and she couldn’t process the idea of _her own daughter_ through the terrifying lack of sound.

“Anders,” said Bethany, her magic sputtering and failing as she ran out of energy from the Beyond, “I can’t—”

“Let me try.” He took the still babe from her arms, his movements smooth, yet urgent. The power from the Beyond surging through him was almost a palpable presence in the room, powerful enough to cause Cullen to look at Anders in alarm. 

“Straining spirit healer,” Leandra said to him. “And the child is certainly not possessed. Not as it is.”

“I daresay not,” Cullen said softly.

“More,” said Anders, “I need... there isn’t...”

“There’s no lyrium,” said Bethany. “No other spirit healers. Anders, you have to—”

“I _know_.” 

Líadan craned her neck to see, ignoring the pain as Marethari made sure the birth was complete and nothing of what had nourished the child remained in Líadan, otherwise it would sicken or kill her. She felt feverish as she watched, as Anders didn’t do the impossible, like he’d always done before. She watched as Anders used every bit of his ability in trying to save her daughter and came up short, the child unmoving and quiet as she’d been for her entire time on Thedas. Then she realized: she had a daughter, and Anders could not save her.

Midway between the door and the rest of them, Emrys stood and watched.

“Emrys,” said Líadan.

He didn’t acknowledge her.

“Emrys,” she said, sharpening her tone, strengthening it so it would reach him.

If he heard, he didn’t indicate that he had.

“Grandfather!” she practically shouted, and it finally got his attention.

He said nothing, but did not look away from her, his eyes filled with a pain Líadan couldn’t begin to fathom. She wanted to feel sorry for him, to help him, but he wasn’t helping her. He wasn’t helping his own kin and her anger won out. “Help her. Human or not, she’s your great-granddaughter,” she said to him. “If you let her die because you refuse to—” She stopped, the calculated arguments having merged into a single tangle stuck in her throat. Yet, she still tried to get through to him. “She’s the only great-grandchild of your own blood that you will have. She’s all _I_ will—”

Emrys moved. He snapped up the babe from Anders’ shaking hands, his magic already flared to life in his own, enveloping the child in a warm, green light. His lips moved in a silent incantation, and if Anders’ surge of magic had been oppressive, the magic Emrys summoned was suffocating. It filled the room with power, potential, and a terrible tension. It had taken so much for Líadan to move Emrys to action, that only afterward did she wonder if she’d made the same mistake with him as she had with Anders—given them faith to do the impossible. It was an unfair expectation of two mortal healers, however skilled they were.

The tension continued to wind tighter around them, the silence in the room dragging onward as the shouts and crashes from outside attempted to fill it. It could have been a single minute or several since her daughter had emerged without a sound, a stark contrast to the chatty tendencies of her father’s side. Was it a punishment from the Creators, for how much neither of them had particularly welcomed her in the early stages? For how she had remained ambivalent as her child grew within her, even as Malcolm had become welcoming?

Another wave of Emrys’ power thrummed through the room, the intensity of the healing glow from his fingers blinding. Then the power taking so much space in the room vanished, sucking the air from their chests as it fled, and Emrys slumped sideways against the wall, the tiny, quiet form of the babe clutched close to his chest.

Then the child cried.


	69. Chapter 69

  
“Do not fear the dark. The sun and the stars will return to guide you.”

—from _The Tome of Koslun,_ the Soul Canto

**Malcolm**

****The good news, Malcolm decided as he ducked another thrust of the qunari’s spear, was that none of the qunari they’d so far come up against hit like Sten did. The bad news was that they hit _almost_ like Sten, and the cumulative hits were taking a toll worse than what Sten usually doled out in the sparring ring.

Sebastian had managed to immediately fell the first few who burst through the rotted wood of the last upper door. Merrill had taken down quite a few more with her magic—Firsts and Keepers, Malcolm decided, were particularly dangerous with their magic, by and large. Since the qunari could only fit one through the doorway at a time, it gave Malcolm, Merrill, and Sebastian a slight, if temporary advantage. Either Sebastian or Merrill took down the qunari entering, and possibly the one behind him. If they didn’t go down quick enough, Malcolm ran up to either stab them or bash them with his shield to make sure they were down for good. The problem arose when Merrill had to cast a spell requiring a longer incantation, Sebastian had to grab arrows from one of his stashes, and a qunari mage, a _saarebas_ , stepped through.

It was his fault, Malcolm knew, that the _saarebas_ got any hit on them at all. He’d stared at him, at how his horns had been sawn off, at how having his hands bound behind his back left him unable to adjust the half-mask flapping over his face, at how he was collared and leashed, a qunari behind him apparently using the other end of the leash to control him. Those things alone would’ve made him look twice, but they weren’t what provoked the long stare.

It was the sewn-shut lips that did him in.

By the time Malcolm realized that, tortured and oppressed or not, the _saarebas_ could still very effectively wield painful and powerful magic, he was already thrown hard to the ground from a force-magic spell that packed an incredible wallop. As he shook his head to clear the daze, he idly wondered if any of the Warden mages knew that force spell. Then it registered—as he continued to stare—that Sebastian’s arrows and Merrill’s magic couldn’t penetrate the _saarebas’_ arcane shield, which meant he really needed to get off his ass and fix the problem.

Actually, he realized, he could throw a smite from where he sat, drawing no attention by standing up. They wouldn’t even know it was coming because he wasn’t a templar, and definitely didn’t advertise the abilities his brother had taught him by wearing templar armor or using a templar shield.

He concentrated as best he could, willing the image of Líadan treated like the _saarebas_ to vacate his mind, and then called a holy smite—or maybe it was just a plain smite, and not holy, because he wasn’t a templar. Either way, it was effective enough. The _saarebas_ tumbled down the steps from the blow of concentrated will, the final smack of his head against a post rendering him unconscious.

“Oh, I didn’t know you could do that!” said Merrill. 

“From what I understand,” said Sebastian, “only the Chantry’s knights can use that ability.”

Malcolm scowled as he scrambled to his feet. “You’re welcome.” He plunged his sword into the _saarebas’_ chest, and then set his feet to prepare for the next inevitable onslaught of qunari.

They didn’t disappoint. They started going through two at a time, with one ducking low and the other practically vaulting over the first. It was a fine display of athleticism, but not so much strategy, unless the qunari strategy was to continue attacking them in ones and twos until they simply ran out of arrows and mana, and then overpower them.

It probably _was_ their strategy. Either that, or this was a distraction for them to be attacked from the rear—though Sebastian had reassured them he’d set enough traps for them to be warned of such a possibility—or they were going to do something about the door and the wall being in the way. Malcolm was at least grateful for the distraction from whatever was going on in the smaller room. If he kept concentrating on keeping the qunari from getting to his friends and loved ones in the other room, he wouldn’t have to think about who he’d lose even if the qunari were defeated. So he kept at it, providing a literal shield for the archer and mage behind him, who did most of the killing.

“Oh, I wonder if the babe’s been born,” said Merrill. When Malcolm briefly cast a questioning glance over his shoulder, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet in her excitement. Her enthusiasm didn’t wane, even as she lashed out with a root spell from her staff that ended up gutting a qunari who’d barreled past Malcolm. “Do you think the babe’s been born?” she asked.

“Merrill, I think you missed your calling as a midwife,” Sebastian said after a wary look at the gutted qunari. “Ability at combat aside.”

Malcolm shook his head. “I hope not. It’s too quiet. No crying. I remember when my nephew was born. All my father and I heard from my sister-in-law’s room was wails. Most were the baby. Some were Fergus. He never said why. But if there’s no crying baby, and the babe’s out, then something’s gone wrong.” He’d honestly be surprised if something went _right_ , that’s how bad the odds were.

Sebastian took quick aim and loosed another arrow that caught a qunari in the eye. “Sometimes they wait a minute or two to start their squalling. It’s what happened with my niece. To hear my brother tell it, it was the longest minute ever to have graced the Maker’s gaze.” 

Somehow, Malcolm didn’t think he’d have quite the luck the Vaels had before their unfortunate meeting with treachery. They’d always been rumored to be favorites of the Maker. They were assuredly favorites with the Chantry, since they gave at least one child per generation to the Chantry for service. Malcolm wasn’t about to start any sort of tradition like that. Then again, if he thought for one instant it would allow Líadan and their daughter to live, he’d consider himself to the Chantry.

Portions of the walls next to the doorway blew outward, showering those below with dust and debris. As they coughed and wiped at their tearing eyes, five qunari jumped down with weapons raised. Malcolm caught a glance of more still standing on the floor above, no weapons in sight, and putting stout wooden beams in the spaces left by the destroyed wall. To keep the ceiling from collapsing, Malcolm supposed. The qunari were definitely clever, he more than gave them that.

Then the fighters swarmed to Malcolm as he blocked them from getting to Sebastian and Merrill. After the third or fourth hit after any number of parries, Malcolm wished he were only battling Sten. There was no way he could stand for very long against five qunari warriors. They were bigger, stronger, and faster, and the only reason he’d lasted this long was due to them not wearing any armor at all, really, and him wearing the well-made Grey Warden armor now issued to all Wardens. He managed to get one qunari with a riposte that left the qunari writhing on the ground as he bled out, but that still left him facing four. Sebastian hit two with arrows, but they weren’t immediately mortal wounds, and the qunari fought on, ignoring them. 

Malcolm parried another sword-thrust, the impact of the qunari’s sword on his own blade jarring his shoulder so bad it went numb. A blow from another qunari knocked the sword from his weakened fingers. He cursed as he brought up his shield, his arm and shoulder hotly screaming when the third qunari heaved a two-handed warhammer into it. The hit drove him down to one knee, and he narrowly missed having his head cut off when he ducked a swing from the fourth qunari. The duck left him off-balance, and he toppled sideways, doing his best to keep his shield between him and the qunari. Even as he tried to draw his dagger from the sheath on his belt, he really couldn’t see a way out. “So,” he shouted, hoping the others heard him, “tell my—”

The qunari over him were drawn into the air, where their bodies went rigid right before they began to twitch uncontrollably. Their weapons fell to the ground, jangling against the stone. Malcolm scrambled from under them when he saw blood start hemorrhaging from their bodies, really not wanting to end up in a literal bloodbath. The sound of their blood pattering on the ground, slow at first, and then gaining speed, was more than a little disturbing, and Malcolm couldn’t recall any mages he’d fought alongside having used a spell like whatever this one was. One by one, the qunari went limp, and once they all had, the spell let them go. They landed on the floor without uttering a sound, and did not move. Right, clearly dead, thought Malcolm. Also an awesome, if nerve-wracking, application of blood magic.

“Merrill,” he said as he pushed himself back on his feet, “I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about blood magic. That was amazing.”

Merrill beamed at the praise.

“You need to be more careful,” Sebastian said to her. “There’s a templar right through that door. Do you want to be killed? Made Tranquil? You were supposed to refrain from using your... talent.”

“I wasn’t going to let Líadan’s bondmate get hacked to pieces by qunari, not when I could easily stop them,” Merrill said.

Aside from the ‘hacked to pieces’ part, the sentiment almost made Malcolm feel fuzzy and warm.

“Easily, she says.” Sebastian shook his head, but the rest of his comment was lost when the qunari who’d been reinforcing the ceiling above jumped down to continue the task at which their comrades had failed.

Malcolm shook out his limbs and got ready again. He kept between Sebastian, Merrill, and the pack of qunari, providing a wall for the qunari to get through before they could get to the ranged fighters. Keeping his distance allowed Merrill to work better with controlling the crowd, and Sebastian to place his shots, while Malcolm got the strays. Except with the demolition of the wall and the door, the qunari just kept dropping in larger and larger numbers, and unless the Maker provided a miracle—or the Creators, Malcolm wasn’t really picky at this point—he wouldn’t be seeing his wife again, nor his son or possibly-now-born daughter.

From behind them, there was a shout in the qunari language that made all the attacking qunari stop in their tracks. Malcolm spun around, as did Sebastian and Merrill, to see a qunari standing with Hawke and the rest who had left earlier, sans Aveline. 

“Maker be praised!” said Sebastian.

The qunari shouted another set of commands, and the rest of the qunari in the room started filing out the lower door, and presumably into Darktown, ignoring Malcolm and the others as if they hadn’t just been fighting. A few amongst them took the weapons off the dead qunari. Their funeral custom required it, he remembered.

“So the fight’s over?” Malcolm asked anyone who would answer. 

“The Arishok is dead. We leave for Par Vollen,” said the qunari who seemed to be in charge. Without waiting for any sort of acknowledgement, he turned and left, joining end of the file.

“All Hawke’s doing,” said Varric.

“I love you, Hawke,” said Malcolm. Whatever it was she’d done, she’d definitely saved their lives down here.

Varric chuckled. “Careful, princeling, or your wife might get the wrong idea.”

“He’s right,” said Isabela. “If she’s had the babe while we were gone, and hears you declaring your love for another woman, she might be justified in cutting off bits you’d like to keep. Just a friendly warning.”

A warning which was not without basis, and Malcolm hurriedly said, “Marian, I only love your for your martial skills. Totally chaste.”

“Oh, I see you’ve been chatting with Sebastian,” said Marian.

A laugh from Bethany was loud enough to be heard through the door. Malcolm almost relaxed, because if someone could laugh, it couldn’t be all that bad in there, could it? Maybe no one was dead. Except they hadn’t heard anything, not that they’d really been paying much attention with all the fighting, but still. He assumed they’d have heard a baby crying, if she’d been born. Maybe Emrys and Marethari had managed to stop whatever was happening.

“Is it safe to come out?” came Cullen’s shout.

“Safe, yes. Clear, no,” said Marian, who’d been surveying the wreckage. “It’ll be a minute. We have to move crates. And bodies. Maker, that’s a lot of bodies. You lot were busy.”

Malcolm started pushing crates aside, desperately wanting to know what had happened, yet too afraid to ask outright. “Less talking, more moving,” he said to Marian.

“And just like that, the romance is gone,” said Varric.

Sebastian bent as if to help, but got distracted by a scratch on Marian’s cheek, and then glanced around as if looking for someone. “Where’s Aveline?”

“Stayed at the Viscount’s Keep,” said Marian. “She has a lot to clean up after all the qunari did. She’ll have to work with Meredith. I’m honestly not sure who to feel sorry for, really.” She glanced at the doorway slowly being uncovered as more crates were picked up or shoved aside. “Any news?”

“Not good news, the last we heard.” Sebastian finally stopped staring at Marian’s lone, barely-there injury, and helped with freeing up the doorway. “Merrill did a good thing, though, with her thinking ahead. She had Varric send for the Dalish Keepers. One of them is a Spirit Healer, so he might have been able to help at least keep the babe alive.”

Malcolm grimaced at the thought of having only one or the other alive on the other side of the door. He wanted _both_ , Maker damn it. Sure, it was greedy and selfish of him to think it, but it was the truth. He wanted his wife and his daughter to live, and while he was hoping for wishes to be granted, he wanted to see his son, too.

Then the last crate was out of the way and the door able to freely swing open, if he pushed on it. Except that he couldn’t bring himself to, because of what could wait for him on the other side of the door, if none of his wishes had been granted. A gentle hand was placed on the small of his back, giving him a nudge. 

“I told you it would be all right, _lethallin_ ,” said Merrill. “Go in.”

At first, he’d trusted Merrill simply because Líadan did, even though Merrill seemed more than a little loopy. Yet, after fighting alongside her for what seemed like an eternity against the qunari, Malcolm trusted Merrill because she’d saved his life. Well, saved his life with blood magic, but that little detail hardly counted in the larger scheme of things. So he went through the door. On the other side, he found that his worst nightmare didn’t await him, and it appeared everyone was alive, as far as he could tell. Anders and Feynriel were both awake and upright, speaking with low tones with Emrys, who looked no more or less disgruntled than he usually did, though he almost drooped with tiredness. Cullen had stood by the door, and his sword was sheathed. Bethany, he noticed, looked slightly less glassy-eyed than she had before, right after drinking the lyrium potions. Near her were Leandra and Marethari in the back half of the room, where Líadan sat with her back leaning against the wall. She was pale and drawn and clearly exhausted, but she was alive.

And Líadan was either holding a lump of blankets—which, on particularly cold nights, wasn’t something out of the question—or she’d had their daughter. 

He did what anyone else naturally would have done, and stared alternately at his wife and at the impossibly small bundle she held. Cáel had never been that small. Actually, he probably had, since Malcolm hadn’t met his son until the boy was around three months old, but still. He wanted to go over, but the room left little free space to navigate, and their battle outside with the qunari hadn’t exactly been the cleanest, nor had they been afforded the chance to clean up. 

Marethari glanced over and seemed to take note of him, for she touched Bethany on the arm and indicated for the younger woman to follow her outside. As the two left, Líadan looked up to watch them go, a faint frown of misunderstanding on her lips until she saw him. At first, she hesitantly smiled, honestly happy to see him alive, yet obviously confused. Then the confusion turn to alarm as he got closer.

“Is that your blood?” she asked. “You’re covered in blood.”

“No, it’s not mine.” He glanced down to double check, since it had been a long fight. “I don’t think it’s mine. If it is, it doesn’t hurt, wherever it’s coming from.” He shuffled uneasily, unsure of what to do or say, or anything, really. And with how filthy he was, he couldn’t touch her or their daughter, if it was their daughter. “But there really isn’t anything I can use to clean with.”

“Then you’ll have to wait to hold her. The Dalish believe it’s bad luck to get non-elven blood on a newborn in their first day of being alive.”

“Really?” She’d looked down when she’d said it, so he couldn’t tell. 

“No.” Her lips pulled into a brief half-smile again. “But you are more than a little unsanitary, at the moment. If you’d like to see her, though, feel free to sit next to me instead of looming.”

His sword and shield left outside on one of the crates, he gladly slid down the wall to sit next to her, pulling off his gloves as he did. As it turned out, there was a tiny person wrapped in the blankets. As he looked down, he saw eyes the color of iron ore looking solemnly back at him from under puffy eyelids. There were a few wispy threads of hair growing from the babe’s scalp, but there wasn’t much, and it was a mostly indeterminate color. Her ears were pressed close to her head, and bore none of the hints of elven blood that Feynriel’s did. They were as rounded as Cáel’s, from what Malcolm could see. He couldn’t tell with the nose, either. Cáel’s, to him, had always been distinctly Theirin, but he couldn’t tell with her. If anything, it was just a standard baby button nose, for now. With a clean hand, thanks to his gloves, he reached out with his finger and touched the tip of his daughter’s nose.

She immediately started rooting around.

“She’s looking to be fed,” said Leandra from almost right next to them, though her proximity was due more to the lack of space in the room than nosiness.

Líadan cupped the back of their daughter’s small head, and then she pressed her lips tightly together in what Malcolm recognized as an attempt at holding back from expressing emotions she believed would make her look weak in front of others. “I can’t,” she said.

“Is it you don’t know how? I could—”

“Mother,” said Bethany from the doorway, “she’s a Grey Warden. The cure we get for the darkspawn taint can do unpleasant things to our bodies. Most Wardens don’t have children after the first few years. No female Wardens can feed any children they have—not if they wish the child to live. I can’t tell you more than that.”

Leandra took the news in stride, entirely undaunted. “Well, we’ll have to find a wet nurse then, won’t we?”

“We have one.” Malcolm hoped they could either get to Nuala or have Nuala get to them in enough time. “But she’s at the Suriel camp.” 

“I’ll send someone out,” Varric said from the outer room. “Always good to have royalty owe you a favor, I say.”

“Oh, I _do_ say,” said Isabela.

“Please tell me the qunari are gone,” Líadan said quietly to Malcolm. “Because I want up off this floor and out of this room, besides the fact that Nuala won’t be able to get here if there’s still qunari marauding around.”

“The Arishok is dead, so they’re all just... leaving. I don’t know why, but I’m not about to question providence. Well, not this time. Right now.”

Líadan frowned. “If you won’t, I will, because short of Elgar’nan reappearing and smashing the Arishok to pieces, I don’t see how he could be killed.”

“Hawke killed him,” said Varric, who was now shouldering his way into the room instead of loitering in the doorway. Hawke and the others followed, making the cramped room absolutely stifling.

“You? You defeated the Arishok, sister?” asked Bethany. “Did you stab him while he wasn’t looking? While he was fighting the others?”

The question brought a sigh from Marian. “It was a duel. One on one combat.”

“Right, got that. How’d you defeat him?” asked Malcolm.

“Incredible skill,” said Varric.

Marian rolled her eyes. “I’ll be honest. I hid. There were these two pillars in the middle of the throne room, so I kept hiding behind them while the Arishok ran around waving his sword and shouting things in Qunlat. He eventually got tired and I hamstrung him. Then I stabbed him in the back.”

Varric let loose a noise of disgust. “Hawke, you suck at telling stories. Almost as bad as Blondie’s not-dragon-killing tales of dragon killing.” He gave a flourish of his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make that duel a thousand times better.”

“What? And let you water down my tactical brilliance?”

“Is that a human term for saving your ass?”

Hawke stood up. “Saving my ass? How did you save my ass? I didn’t see you enter any duel.”

“I avoid duels. Bad for my health, like going to Merchant’s Guild meetings.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Always.” He nodded at Emrys and Marethari. “Keepers. I see that you made it here safely.”

“Your escort was rather knowledgeable in how to bypass the Gallows entrance of Kirkwall,” said Emrys. “Though his attitude left much to be desired.”

Malcolm refrained from pointing out the painfully obvious. 

Líadan elbowed him anyway. “You should be a little more understanding. Emrys helped. Not only did he go into the Beyond, but he helped afterward.” She gingerly traced their daughter’s rounded ears, and Malcolm didn’t miss the rapid blinking of her eyes. “She would have died if he hadn’t.”

Then Malcolm found himself blinking as Líadan had, not having realized just how close they’d come to losing her. So, he focused on another aspect of what had gone on while he’d been fighting the qunari. “Did he go into the Beyond by himself?” He supposed Emrys could be a blood mage, though Ser Cullen probably would have reacted badly to that, so maybe he and Marethari had carried an inordinate amount of lyrium with them from Sundermount’s valley. Oghren _had_ said there was a lot of lyrium in Sundermount itself.

“He is the Dreamer I mentioned to Hawke,” said Marethari.

Emrys glared at the other Keeper, but Malcolm believed it a pointless threat. After all, the secret was obviously out. What wasn’t obvious was how old Líadan’s grandfather _really_ was. He doubted he’d be forthcoming.

“You’re a Dreamer?” Líadan stared more disbelievingly at her grandfather than any of the other surprised people in the room did. 

He regarded her calmly. “It is not an ability that is wise to discuss openly.”

“Mentioning it to your family isn’t discussion. Just a ‘by the way, I possess an ability so powerful and rare it only appears once every few Ages’ would have been nice. And we won’t even _discuss_ how old you really must be if you’re a Dreamer.”

Varric stepped between them, breaking their line of sight. “Maybe this would be a good time to figure out how we’ll get your nurse into the city. I can send a contact out, but they’ll have a hard time finding the Dalish if they aren’t with Keeper Marethari’s clan, and if they do happen to stumble on the other clan, it’s far more likely they’ll be killed rather than questioned. The good news is with the Viscount dead and Meredith distracted with cleaning up after the qunari, the city’s never been safer for those who’d like to go unnoticed.” He focused on Malcolm and Líadan. “So it should be very safe for your nurse to bring the other kid, much as Blondie would object.”

Anders grumbled from the corner, but Varric ignored him. “So, Keepers, what do you say?”

“I cannot return to the Suriel yet,” said Emrys. “I have tasks left to complete here.”

Leandra nodded. “Spending time with your great-grandchild.”

“No. My tasks relate to Dalish matters, not human.”

The unspoken rebuke hurt Malcolm, and he felt Líadan lightly flinch next to him. He supposed that after having saved the child, Emrys would have been less unwelcoming of his great-granddaughter. Judging by her reaction, Líadan must have assumed the same.

“I must return to my clan,” said Marethari. “I will bring your contact to the Suriel first, so that they may retrieve the child’s nurse.”

“Excellent. Come on, then, Keeper.” Varric started to leave, but Marethari detoured to kneel near where Líadan sat.

She gazed down at the sleeping child in Líadan’s arms, and then briefly touched the babe on the forehead. “There is much fate has in store for you,” she whispered. Then she looked up and reached across the space between herself and Líadan to cup Líadan’s face in her old hands. “You fear you have not, but you do your clan proud, _da’len_. Never let that fear take you.” Without another word, she rose and followed Varric out the door.

Marian cleared her throat in the awkward silence they had left behind. “Keeper Marethari says strange, puzzling things an awful lot, I’ve noticed. When she met me, it was all ‘There’s nothing stronger than a promise kept,’ and ‘There is a light in your heart, human. Don’t let it go out. You will need it,’ which really still makes no sense whatsoever.”

“She is right on both accounts,” said Emrys, whose concerned gaze had followed the departing Marethari. “You will need your light. And there is nothing in this plane, or any plane in existence, stronger than a promise kept.”

“Still doesn’t make any sense, even if a second Keeper says it,” said Marian. “And right now isn’t the time to be debating things of an existential nature. We’ve got qunari bodies to clear and rubble to pick up so we can see the state of my house.” She frowned. “I know the house is still standing, but I’d like to make sure my little brother is alive, as infuriating as he is.” She shook her head, and then motioned toward Malcolm before sweeping her arm around to the others. “Right, so. The more hands we have to clear out debris, the better.”

“Go help,” Líadan said when Malcolm looked at her. “It’ll go faster with more people, and I don’t want to stay down here any longer than I have to.”

The trip up the few sets of stairs to the Amell estate proper took less time than Malcolm thought it would. The qunari had been incredibly precise and thorough in how they broke through each door and its barriers, setting aside or even neatly stacking the debris instead of leaving it strewn behind them. In the estate, they found Carver and Bodahn alive and well in the small pantry where they’d taken refuge, and Sandal just outside, looking perfectly fine and pleased with himself, yet surrounded by qunari bodies.

“You did it again, Sandal!” Carver grinned at the dwarf. “Maker, you’re like an army all on your own, I swear. Thank you.”

“Enchantment?” asked Sandal.

Marian scowled at her brother. “Oh, he’s polite to Sandal. Even expresses gratitude, but never to his sisters. No, of course not. Git.” She punched him in the arm, the armored glove she wore serving well against the brigandine Carver had on.

“You’d be polite to a person who can kill that many qunari single-handedly and all without a scratch on him,” said Bethany.

“Don’t you take his side! Just because he’s your twin doesn’t mean—”

Sebastian deftly stepped between the two sisters before matters escalated. “I believe we can all agree that Sandal must be favored by the Maker himself.”

“I suppose.” Marian let out a little huff. “All right, go get these bodies stacked outside. I’m assuming Knight-Commander Meredith or Aveline will be arranging for them to be picked up and disposed of.” Marian nudged her brother into action.

“Make sure to collect their weapons and set them aside first,” said Malcolm. “There’s a qunari Warden in Ferelden. When the Warden Commander recruited him, she explained to me after how the qunari don’t care about their bodies after death, but they believe their weapons—or tools or whatever, depending on their role in the Qun—are their souls. I suspect someone will be back for them, and won’t be able to go home until he gathers up every weapon of his fallen brothers. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be that guy.” He shrugged. “And there’s that whole ‘respect for the dead’ thing.”

Marian surveyed the lack of damage to her estate. “I suppose it’s worth it, considering they didn’t break a single bit of china.”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Marian.”

She sighed. “And—” she elongated the word “—because it’s the right thing to do.”

The others got to picking up and carrying qunari bodies outside, and before Malcolm went to help, he glanced back at the stairs. Líadan waited impatiently below, as did their daughter, which still amazed him. She’d been born before they’d really expected, and he realized with a start that they’d never discussed a name. He shook himself and pitched in, though he couldn’t keep from looking at the door to the stairs every now and then.

Marian almost made him jump when she and Isabela sidled up next to him. “You keep looking at the stairs.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Because my family is down there?” Part of it, anyway. Cáel wasn’t there, but he’d be at the estate soon enough, provided everyone made the trip back safely.

“Oh, no need to get defensive. It’s adorable. Well, aside from the blood that’s all over you. Did you _bathe_ in it?”

“I was overwhelmed, and then Merrill—”

She held up a hand. “Say no more. I know exactly what spell, and was showered in exactly the same results. Come on. You can wash up while the others finish moving the bodies.”

“But—”

“Nope, no arguments.” She took him by the elbow and steered him toward the stairs going to the second level. “Your wonderful wife just had the cutest little girl, and you haven’t even been able to hold her yet. Her being Líadan or your new daughter. Were this not the case, I’d make you work like the rest of us, but I’m in a giving mood. I think Líadan could use a good, solid hug from you—”

“More than that,” said Isabela.

Marian looked at her in askance. “Isabela, she just had a baby. What is wrong with you?”

Isabela waved her hand in dismissal. “And? There’s plenty of healers just waltzing about downstairs. They can fix her right up, with none of that normal, dragged out weeks of healing it usually takes. Luxury at its finest!”

“Except hastening the natural process can mess you up,” said Marian. “Healing tears or fevers or other injuries, all well and good, but rush the body, and you could end up making that the last child a woman ever has.”

“I know,” said Isabela. “But Líadan’s a Grey Warden, or have you forgotten? Not sure about you, but I’ve never heard of two Grey Wardens having a child together. Every Warden I’ve come across, if they have children, they had them before. Now, if I know anything, it’s about gambling and odds, and odds say that sweet little girl shouldn’t even exist. Odds definitely say the same won’t be happening twice. Were I in Líadan’s place, I’d be telling those healers to fix me right up. There’s no point in waiting for the body to heal itself when the result’s the same either way. Pity, really.” Isabela gave Malcolm a consoling pat on the shoulder that verged on a caress when her fingers slipped by the nape of his neck. “You did make a very cute baby. Red and wrinkled, yes, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a newborn that didn’t look like a little old man.”

Malcolm blinked. That certainly changed his perspective. “I’ll never look at her the same way again. Maker. Thank you, Isabela, really.”

She smiled at him. “That’s me! I’m a giver.”

“That’s the same thing you said when you offered to pay for a night at the Blooming Rose for Bethany.”

“And the offer still stands, Hawke.”

By the time Malcolm had cleaned up, Carver and Sebastian had carried Líadan upstairs and into a guest room—one of many in the Amell estate, from what he’d seen. Cullen stood at one side of the door. When he saw Malcolm, he quickly explained it was a precaution, and that he would stay through the night. Though he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, Emrys stood outside the room, as if he were standing guard. His glare directed Malcolm’s way when he went through the door only supported the assumption. Inside, he found Líadan settled on the bed, her scowl indicating she wanted to be up and active. Merrill sat in an armchair, her wide green eyes studying the sleeping babe. 

“Isabela said she looks like an old man,” said Merrill. “But I don’t think she looks like Hahren Paivel.”

“Maker, I hope not,” said Malcolm. 

“Oh! You’re clean!” Merrill almost clapped her hands, but held off at the last second. “You can hold her now, if you wanted, since you won’t get blood on her.”

“I would, but I’ve always been told not to wake a sleeping baby.”

“Oh, that’s a good point. I’ve heard the elders say that parents should also sleep when the baby sleeps, so I’ll leave you two alone. I’ve got questions for Keeper Emrys, anyway. Just let me know when you’ve named her!” Merrill got up and headed for the door.

“ _I’ve_ got questions for Keeper Emrys,” Líadan grumbled as she crossed her arms.

When the door shut behind Merrill, Malcolm finished the walk over to the bed, noting that some intrepid person had placed his armor on a stand in the corner. “Don’t you think you could wait to question him later? I mean, he waited this long to mention his Dreamer ability, so I think explanations can be put off a little longer.”

“Maybe.”

He got in beside her, and she leaned against him, and he reveled in the chance to finally be close to her again. It hadn’t been that long, but with everything that had happened, everything that had _changed_ , it felt like an Age had passed. He glanced over at the cradle Marian had somehow recovered from one of the cellar levels, or other storage, Malcolm wasn’t sure. “We never talked about names,” he said, hoping Líadan would be amenable to a change in subject away from Emrys.

“We never talked about her much at all.” She gave him a half-smile that didn’t reflect in her eyes. “Until now, when we’re left without a choice because she’s very real.”

“Did you want a Dalish name?”

She shook her head. “No. She isn’t Dalish.” Líadan shot a glare in the direction of the door. “As my grandfather keeps pointing out.” She picked at the quilt as she sighed. “I’m not good with human names. I thought about maybe after either of your mothers, but they didn’t seem to suit her. And I want her to have some sort of connection to the Dalish, which is hard to do with giving her a human name. Then I remembered Rósín, and the templar who saved her. Ser Ava, I think? So I thought maybe after that templar, because she rescued a Dalish child. But then I remembered Ser Ava was Orlesian, so that wouldn’t—”

“I think it’s perfect.” And it was. A human name, but related to the Dalish, and the name of a woman who’d been a hero in the end, templar or not. “Named after a compassionate hero. Not a bad way to start out.”

“There we go then. Named.” She said it like they’d triumphed over something, which he supposed they had, considering. Yet, under what Malcolm recognized as a general, but exhausted cheer, he could tell Líadan was wading through some sort of vague melancholy. 

He wasn’t sure if he could reach it, sitting on the opposite end of the bridge as he was, nearly giddy with the idea that they’d all impossibly survived. Then he wondered what the cost would be, and he wasn’t quite so giddy anymore.


	70. Chapter 70

“Only sixty-five of our group made it to Halamshiral. Some gave up. Some sickened, especially the little ones. Bandits stalked us. My mother forgive me, I had to steal food. A child fought me for extra scraps of bread. A few days later, I carried her for miles after her legs gave out. She died shivering in my arms.” ****

—from _An Anonymous Account of the Long Walk,_ as told to Brother Pekor of Ferelden, circa -140 Ancient

**Malcolm**

Of course, naming their child after a human templar meant that when Emrys found out a short time later, he immediately questioned it.

Malcolm knew he should have seen the objection coming a long way off.

“It’s not a proper name,” Emrys said, frowning at both of them, and then frowning at Cullen and Merrill for good measure. Malcolm had fetched Merrill at Líadan’s insistence, because apparently the other woman had been after Líadan for the babe’s name since they’d first brought her upstairs. Cullen and Emrys had followed, possibly out of the same curiosity. Well, maybe curiosity in Cullen’s case, but Emrys seemed intent on condemnation no matter what.

“Would you approve of her having no name at all?” Líadan asked her grandfather. “You’ve made it more than clear she isn’t Dalish, so she can’t have a Dalish name. This is the next best thing, named after the human templar who saved Velanna’s niece from the darkspawn.”

Emrys’ eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise before his expression recomposed itself to his usual calm appearance. “So the rumors were true. A human templar did save a Dalish girl.” He looked over at Cullen. “I suppose you templars are not all bad.”

Which, for Emrys, Malcolm realized, was high praise, considering it had been templars who’d killed the Keeper’s daughter.

At Cullen’s confused look, Merrill said, “I believe that was a compliment. Keepers are not always very good at giving them. Their skills at it tend to rust.”

“Then thank you,” Cullen said.

Emrys nodded at him, and then turned to Merrill. “You were Keeper Marethari’s First?”

“Once.” Merrill’s eyes took on the sad, faraway look she got when the Mahariel were brought up.

“Yet Kirkwall is now your home?”

“I’m not sure I would call it home. It’s... where I need to be right now. There are things that need to be done that only I can do.”

Emrys stood from the seat he’d taken. “If Keeper Marethari will not take you back once your task is complete, find the Suriel. My clan will have a place for you.” Then he walked out, with Cullen awkwardly following.

Left behind was a stunned Merrill, and a hurt Líadan who was doing her best to hide it. Malcolm noticed, and so did Merrill. “ _Lethallan_ —”

“You should join them,” said Líadan. “The Suriel would never welcome me, and the Mahariel are not who they once were.”

“ _Lethallan_ —”

“Don’t let yourself stay an exile, Merrill, whatever you do.”

If Merrill had any sort of reply, it was overtaken by Anders bustling into the room, accompanied by the cheeriness of his old self that they had sorely missed. As Anders checked on Líadan, Merrill slipped out of the room. 

Once he was satisfied with Líadan’s condition, he stepped over to the cradle, the light from his hands casting a greenish glow on Ava’s features. Anders nodded to himself, and just as he went to step away, the babe woke up. “Bollocks, sorry,” said Anders. “I really did try not to, but I do need to keep checking on her after the scare she gave us.”

“It’s fine,” said Líadan, who was glared back into bed by Anders when she made a move to get out. 

“Malcolm is perfectly able to pick her up, and if you want to do the holding, he can bring her to you. None of this hopping out of bed business for you, not until I’m satisfied that everything’s where it’s supposed to be with you,” Anders said.

Líadan rolled her eyes. “I’d be fine if you or Emrys or anyone would just finish healing me instead of having me wait.”

“Let’s do this—take tonight, and we can argue about it tomorrow, all right? Because you’re about to fall over asleep, I can see it in your eyes, and you’ll be all the more pissed if you fall asleep in the middle of an argument.”

“He’s right,” said Malcolm.

“You stay out of this,” she told him. “Go hold your daughter.”

Hard to argue with both points, he supposed, and approached the cradle with some amount of trepidation. He had practice, both with Cáel over the past months, and with Oren before him, but he’d never really held or cared for a baby this _new_. She seemed ridiculously small—and ridiculously pissed, judging from her red, angry face—and when he picked her up, she easily fit within both his hands. _Maker_. Holding Ava for the first time was nothing at all like the first time he’d held Cáel, and it wasn’t just because his shoulder still hurt from the blow earlier. Though, with Ava, he’d had more time to process the reality of having a child, he was as woefully unprepared for her as he had been with his son. The weight of responsibility was equally as crushing, as was the impossibly strong attachment he felt to the tiny, squalling being who was his daughter. 

Squalling, right. Needed to comfort her, and he defaulted to how he held Cáel when he was upset, supporting her against his chest and shoulder, though she took up far less room than Cáel. She quieted quickly and resorted to snuffling into his shoulder, probably looking for something to eat. Hopefully, Nuala and the others would arrive soon. “She won’t starve, will she?” he asked Anders. “I mean, how hungry is she?”

“It hasn’t been that long since she’s technically eaten, I suppose,” said Anders. “Remember, they’re nourished by the mother before they’re born, and that link remains until just after they’re born and we sever it. And mothers don’t often get their own milk until the next day or even a few days later after giving birth. So she’s safe enough. I wouldn’t recommend waiting an extended amount of time, and if she doesn’t arrive by tonight, we might have to find some sort of milk to sustain her until we can get her to the nurse. Otherwise, she’s fine.” He glanced over at Líadan. “So you—oh. Ha, I was right.”

Malcolm followed Anders’ gaze to find that Líadan had fallen asleep as they’d talked. He’d assumed it normal, yet though she’d given birth, he also recalled she’d spent the majority of the day asleep while she was battling in the Fade. He set aside the worry and looked down to the child he held, who’d also fallen asleep. Right, then. Using the skills he’d gained from taking care of Cáel, he deftly returned the swaddled babe to her crib so she could stay asleep, too. 

Once he and Anders had quietly exited the room, leaving the door open a tiny crack, and gone downstairs, he asked, “Is that normal? The falling asleep thing? Because she was asleep most of the day, and Ava’s been asleep for most of the time she’s been born, and I didn’t meet Cáel until he was practically three months old, so I’ve no idea about any of this.”

It was Leandra who answered. “Giving birth—and being born, for that matter—are exhausting things. Let them sleep. If you weren’t so keyed up, I’d tell you to do the same while you can. Babies are exhausted the first couple of days, up to the first two weeks. They sleep a lot, more than you’d think. Then the honeymoon ends, and they’ll cry a whole lot more. But it’s too late to think about leaving them to the wolves at that point. You’re attached to them, for good or ill.”

“Wait! Wait! Let me guess!” said Anders. “Carver had colic?”

“I’m standing right here,” said Carver. “And it was _Bethany_.”

Varric gaped at Leandra. “Is he telling the truth?”

“The Maker’s honest truth, Messere Tethras,” said Leandra.

“Sunshine!” Varric grinned at Bethany. “You used to be a storm cloud!”

The gathering felt like one of a close-knit family, and Malcolm felt like an interloper as they continued to revel and tease. It was enough to make him almost grateful when Emrys took him aside and into another room.

It quickly turned serious. Though Bodahn had lit fires in the hearths in each room to ward off the chill found this time of year even in Kirkwall, the cheery flames did nothing to lighten the shadows behind Emrys’ eyes. “You tell me right now, human, about _Setheneran_.”

“If I knew anything about it, I’d be happy to, but I really don’t know—”

Emrys stepped closer, and Malcolm took a hasty step backwards to keep some distance between them. For the first time, he actually felt threatened by the Keeper. He’d always assumed that Emrys’ wishes for the happiness of his granddaughter would keep him safe, but it appeared he’d assumed wrong. Emrys’ hand reached out, and he almost grabbed Malcolm’s arm. Instead, he hovered, and Malcolm found himself backing straight into a bookshelf that rattled against the wall behind it. “This isn’t the time for any of your games.”

“I’m not playing a game.” He really hoped that Sandal and Bodahn were still in the lofted, upper part of the library, so that maybe if Emrys tried to kill him, Sandal could stop him. “Look, all I know is that Morrigan used an eluvian with the idea of going there. She assumed it’s where Arlathan was, and that she’d be out of Flemeth’s reach. That’s it.”

“It.” Emrys looked as if he’d tasted something foul, and then regarded Malcolm as if he were decidedly not one of the clever. “You have no idea the magnitude of what’s happened.”

“No, because no one bothers to fill me in most of the time.”

“Think for a moment, and maybe you’ll figure it out. You should not require everything be explained to you.”

Maker’s blood, Emrys sounded like _Morrigan_ when she got into a snit. “All right, since so much has happened in the past day, how about you give me a hint?” Because he really had no idea where to even start hazarding a guess.

“How did Torpor find Líadan in the Beyond?”

Malcolm squinted as he recollected. “Merrill mentioned something about an echo being left in the eluvian shard she had, so when Feynriel saw it, he was able to catch onto one of Líadan’s dreams from that echo, and if Morrigan went through an eluvian, she’s got an echo in there, too, and Feynriel could probably find her and—oh, shit.” He shook himself and looked directly at Emrys. “Feynriel could lead anyone to _Setheneran_ , and if Arlathan is really there, then Tevinter would really like to go there. Probably the Chantry, too, and holy shit, probably Flemeth. And there’s no way to tell Morrigan of the danger, because Flemeth can get to her—”

“ _Asha’belannar_ is no danger to her own child.”

Malcolm looked at him in askance. “Right, and I’ve got a bridge to Kinloch Hold to sell you. Come on, I’m not that stupid.”

“Believe what you will, but Tevinter is the danger, as is your Chantry. The boy must be hidden from both. His power, and more importantly, his ability to control it, is too rare to kill him for the danger he presents to _Setheneran_.”

“The Fade-walking thing? You know, Flemeth can do that, too.”

Emrys quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

 _Now_ Malcolm knew from whom Líadan had gotten her penchant for scathing remarks. “Well, pardon me for not being hundreds of years old and not catching on as quickly as ever-observant you.” Then Malcolm remembered who he was talking to, and that Emrys was probably second-only to Flemeth in magical power, and he really should have watched his tone.

“The old lady is scary!” came Sandal’s voice from above.

Thank the _Maker_. Sandal was there. “What, Sandal? Lady Amell didn’t seem scary to me.”

There were heavy footsteps and then Sandal and Bodahn were both walking down the short flight of stairs from the loft. “You’ll have you excuse my boy, Your Highness,” said Bodahn. “He sees things. Says there’s an old lady who’s appeared by his bed. I’ve told him there’s no such thing, but he goes on anyway. 

“She has a scary laugh!” said Sandal.

Malcolm immediately thought of Flemeth, especially given the timing, but he knew the connection was absurd. “I’m sure she does,” he said to Sandal.

“Just excuse us, Your Highness.” Bodahn gave a little bow as he shuffled past. “Keeper.”

Emrys waited until the door closed behind them to speak again. “Feynriel must go with me. I’ll have to speak with the clan, because he’s a half-breed, but once they realize he is a Dreamer, they will agree to it.”

The jealously and anger Malcolm felt after witnessing Emrys’ offer to Merrill returned, doubled by this new offer he would make to Feynriel—a half-breed, by Emrys’ own admission. “You’ll take on a half-breed, and yet you’d never offer Líadan a place with your clan.”

“I would not expect a mother to wish to leave her children behind.” The old Keeper’s gaze remained level, which infuriated Malcolm. As he turned to watch the fire, Emrys continued to speak. “I would not put her in the place of having to make that choice.” 

“And even if you did, your clan wouldn’t welcome her.”

Emrys spun to face him, a touch of fury in his eyes and his words. “Is that what you saw from them? Perhaps you need another perspective, shemlen. My clan knew and loved her mother. They knew Líadan as a child. They love her as they did her mother. To acknowledge that, to accept that, to accept her when she remains apart from the Dalish, they could not do it. They would become attached to her, only to see her taken away. So they stayed aloof. But do not assume it is because they do not welcome her.”

“Then why not say so?” Malcolm ignored the danger in Emrys’ tone, and wondered if it wasn’t only the clan Emrys spoke of, but himself, as well. It would explain his erratic behavior when it came to Líadan.

“She is torn enough between two worlds. If she could not be convinced before she birthed her child, she would not now, and to attempt it would only cause more pain. She has enough regret, and I will let it be.” With that, Emrys fell silent. 

Malcolm let it go until his mind churned too much over how Emrys had saved Ava’s life, until he couldn’t bear not asking. “Why? Why did you save her?”

He held Malcolm’s gaze, and in the Keeper’s eyes, Malcolm thought he could see the same deep regret he once thought he’d seen in Flemeth’s ancient gaze.

“For every reason you could think,” Emrys said quietly. “You have your answer, human. Do not speak to me about it again.” He continued staring at Malcolm, and then stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder. Malcolm winced at the pain, to which he could’ve sworn Emrys had started to roll his eyes. Then the Keeper mumbled something under his breath, and Malcolm felt the warmth of healing magic roll through his shoulder, taking the pain with it as it left. “You are welcome, human. Now, leave me. I have much to plan.”

After casting a wary look behind him, Malcolm swiftly left the library. He wouldn’t say fled, because he was a grown man, but it was very nearly that. He’d touched some sort of nerve with Emrys, one he hadn’t realized was there, and not only had it scared him, it had scared Emrys.

He’d barely had time to process the information when there was a knock at the door, Bodahn was rushing past him, and a mercenary burst through with Ariane right behind her.

“I’m looking for Messere Tethras,” the woman said through a cloth mask she didn’t deign to remove.

“You found him,” Varric called from the other end of the entryway. He nodded at Ariane, and the others shuffling in behind her. “I see you brought who I asked for.” Then he flipped a sovereign to the mercenary. “The gold’s for you, and you can tell your higher-ups with the Coterie that it’s one less favor they owe me.”

The woman easily caught the coin, and then she was gone in the blink of an eye. Malcolm would have been impressed, except his attention was entirely caught by the actions of his son. Nuala put the boy down just past the doorway, and Cáel walked—if somewhat wobbly—right over to Malcolm.

“You’re walking!” Malcolm said, barely keeping himself from shouting before he knelt down to grab Cáel. “You had to figure it out when you were out of my sight?”

Cáel grinned at him, and then bumped his head against Malcolm’s chest, an indication that he wanted to be picked up. Malcolm happily obliged, comforted by the boy’s solid weight against him. He was astonished, once again, at how quickly his son grew and changed and learned. Barely a day had passed, and he’d gone from pulling up on everything to walking. Next thing he knew, Cáel would be talking. 

“I hear this boy has a little sister?” asked Nuala. 

Malcolm smiled at her. “Yes. A hungry one, at that. She and Líadan are both asleep upstairs. I know you aren’t supposed to wake a sleeping babe, but—”

Nuala held up her hand. “One little and new as she is has to be awakened to feed, if the summary I got from Keeper Marethari is correct.”

“It is,” Anders said from the hallway beyond. “I know you just got here, and we’ve barely had time to say hello—speaking of, hello, I’m Anders the healer, nice to meet you—but that little girl really does need to eat. She gave us enough of a scare when she was born, so she’s got a lot of energy to replenish.”

“You said she would be all right,” Malcolm said.

“And she will,” said Anders. “Especially now that her nurse—” He looked questioningly at Nuala.

“Nuala,” she said. “Nice to meet you. Nevermind explaining to Malcolm; it’ll be too long. Take me to the poor girl so she can finally eat. You can chat later.” She gave Malcolm a friendly pat on the arm as she walked by, and followed Anders up the stairs.

“Your boy’s into everything,” said Kennard. “Just so you’re aware. Also, your Messere Varric chose some shady characters to send our way to fetch us.”

“Hey, beggars can’t be choosers,” said Varric. “The Coterie owes me too many debts to not get the job done. And here you are, safe and sound.” He smiled and tilted his head in thought. “I wonder if Lady Amell realizes she’s got three princes standing around in her house right now. Well, two standing up and one being carried, but still.” He pointed at Kennard. “You hungry? Food’s laid out in the dining room. Orana made cinnamon buns. Best ones you’ll ever have, I promise you that.”

“Like I’d turn that down.” Kennard followed Varric into the hallway, heading for the dining room. 

That left Malcolm holding Cáel, with only Ariane for company. “How’s she doing?” she asked softly.

“All right, I suppose. It’s hard to tell. She was exhausted when I briefly got to talk to her, and she’s been asleep since then. I wish I knew.” He sighed. “Emrys offered Merrill a place in his clan, right in front of Líadan. I know she’s upset by that, at least.”

“Creators, of course he did, because why wouldn’t he think to ask where his own granddaughter—who can’t join his clan—couldn’t hear?” Ariane scowled. “Not going to think about him, because he’s nearly as frustrating as Keeper Marethari. Right. So how’s the new child? You two come up with a name yet?”

“Ava,” he said, and geared up to explain the name.

“Oh, after the human who saved Seranni’s daughter from the darkspawn,” said Ariane. “Good choice. That templar was sort of a bridge between human and Dalish, so it makes sense.”

“That’s pretty much what Líadan thought of it, too. She came up with it. I had no idea.” He glanced over at her. “So when did Cáel start walking? We haven’t been gone for that long.”

“Just this afternoon. The little thief stole the bread from my plate when I turned my back. I turned around just in time to see him toddling off with it, happy as could be. He’s got the build of a warrior, but the kid’s got some deft hands.”

“He didn’t get that from me.”

Ariane gave him an appraising look. “Hmm. I don’t know. Líadan did mention fingers.”

Malcolm blushed. Maker’s breath, he could _not_ believe Ariane would bring up that throwaway comment. Wait, yes, he could, because he distinctly recalled that she and Panowen and Líadan all tended to be incorrigible when together. He cleared his throat. “Morrigan was a mage, I’m sure you remember. Not a thief.”

“All right, fine. But he did steal my bread, either way.”

Sandal’s large head poked around the corner of the doorway leading to the hall, his clear blue eyes wide. “One day,” he said, “the magic will come back—all of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see.”

“What?” Malcolm stared at the dwarf. Before tonight, he’d assumed the only thing Sandal could say was ‘Enchantment!’ and he’d been proven very wrong twice now.

Sandal blinked. “Enchantment!” Then he scratched at his rear and wandered off.

Malcolm couldn’t wait to go home. As nice and hospitable as Marian Hawke had been, this place was really starting to freak him out. 

“What was that about?” asked Ariane.

“I honestly have no idea. I didn’t think that boy could even speak beyond a single word.” He shook his head slowly, mindful of the now-asleep one-year-old passed out on his shoulder. “Weird, though.”

“Well, you can stay here and figure it out. I’m going to go see if my friend is awake. And even if she’s not, I want to see the new baby. I’ll send Nuala to find you and Cáel when she’s ready.”

Ariane trotted up the same stairs the others had gone up. Malcolm had hardly gotten to the hallway to try to find Bodahn or Marian or Leandra to figure out where Cáel, Nuala, and Kennard would sleep when he was confronted by Emrys. Again, because apparently the Keeper had nothing better to do than ask questions.

“ _Asha’belannar_ has taken quite an interest in you, it seems,” said Emrys. 

“Unfortunately.” Though Malcolm well knew that one reason for said interest was the boy he held in his arms. Whatever else might be, Cáel was Flemeth’s grandson. Which, when he thought about it, was just weird and pretty much incomprehensible. 

Emrys took a long look at Cáel before returning to Malcolm. “Consider this: it may not be the misfortune you believe.”

Malcolm frowned. “I think you and I must have different definitions of misfortune.”

“Perhaps we are not speaking of the same _Asha’belannar_.”

“Oh, I think we are. You just see her a lot differently than I do.”

“Regardless, you would be wise to remember her favor of you. It speaks well of who you are, even if you are involved with my granddaughter.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Keeper, that almost sounded like approval.”

Emrys’ mouth puckered like he’d tasted something vile. “Do not mistake this for approval. But in this I will do unlike what I did with my own daughter—what I should have done with my daughter. I will think of her happiness. If Líadan is happy and well, I will thank the Creators for that, and be happy for her sake.” He leveled an even more serious look on Malcolm. “You somehow make her happy, human. I do not know how, and I suspect neither of you do, either. No matter. Just continue to do as you are. However, should you hurt her, should you fail her, I will risk even the wrath of _Asha’belannar_ to put an end to you.”

As Emrys strode away, Malcolm couldn’t help but gape. Today was the strangest day he’d ever experienced, and he’d had a lot of strange days. His stomach growled and brought him to reality, and Nuala exited the upstairs room with Leandra. She gently took the sleeping Cáel from Malcolm’s arms to bring him first to see Líadan, and then to the room that had been set aside for her, him, and his bodyguard. Leandra offered Malcolm her arm after having heard his stomach. “You’re wife’s managed to eat, you know. It wouldn’t do for you to die of starvation, either,” she said to him. “And you still look like you’re in shock.”

“My son started to walk today, I was told—and I saw, when they came in.” He glanced upstairs as they passed the steps. “And I still can’t believe Líadan and I have a daughter.”

Leandra gave him a fond pat on the arm. “My husband felt the same way when I had Carver and Bethany. He’d hardly gotten comfortable in being Marian’s father when suddenly he was someone else’s father, too. You’ll be fine. I’ve found that men named Malcolm are good, earnest men.”

“I think Bethany mentioned that her father’s name was the same as mine.”

“Or yours is the same as his,” Marian said as they entered the dining room. “My father was born before you were, after all, unless you’re a lot older than you look.”

“Younger than I look, probably,” he said.

When Marian looked like she wanted to ask, Isabela cut her off. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Unlike before, Malcolm didn’t feel like an interloper in the banter. Once he’d conversed and filled his stomach, he excused himself for the night to head upstairs. He just wanted to be where Líadan was after what had been an untenable separation for the day. When he returned to the room, Ava was asleep, and Líadan awake and seated on the edge of the bed, her eyes focused on the closed window. It seemed like she was waiting for something.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Her eyes shifted over to him, and she plucked at the quilt thrown haphazardly over her legs, even as they dangled off the bed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He froze. He desperately wanted it to be nothing, but no one ever started a conversation like that without it being significant. Still, he aimed for humor. “She’s got eleven toes, hasn’t she? That’s all right, I’ll love her all the same.”

Líadan didn’t return his attempt at lightening matters. She looked at the window again before saying, “ _Asha’belannar_ was in the Beyond.”

“I... would have preferred the extra toe.” Extra toes, in his opinion, were a lot less complicated.

She flung him a questioning glance. “How do you even come up with these things?”

“I honestly have no idea.” Because he didn’t. Most times, they just came out of his mouth, and half of those times, he wanted to grab them back. He sighed and sat beside her, nudging her to tease her that his feet touched the ground, while hers did not.

It earned him a scowl. Good enough.

“What do you mean by Flemeth being in the Fade?”

“Exactly what I said. We were fighting a demon, Emrys, Feynriel, Justice, and I, and we were losing. Sort of. I wasn’t succumbing to the demon, but Justice kept saying that Anders was saying that we didn’t have enough time. We didn’t have enough time to fight off the demon, keep me alive, and keep Ava alive. Then _Asha’belannar_ stepped in, literally, and killed the pride demon like it was nothing.”

“Did she say why? I mean, I know Flemeth’s explanations usually leave much to be desired in terms of coherence, but why?”

“Something about having fates awaiting us, and that they didn’t involve dying by a templar’s Sword of Mercy. So _Asha’belannar_ helped things along.”

“How would she even know?” He waved off his question. “No, nevermind that. Then we’d get into the ‘how does Flemeth know anything she knows?’ loop and never free ourselves.” He shook his head. “So you had Emrys _and_ Flemeth help?”

“Yes. And I think there’s... there’s something going on with _Asha’belannar_ and my grandfather.”

“Oh, feel free to unpack _that_ one, because you really don’t know where my mind first went with it.”

She gagged slightly. “Not that. Creators, I hope not that. No. From what I gathered from what they said to each other, she owes him a debt, and he won’t relieve her of it until she lets go of her sorrow.” Her brow furrowed. “At least, I think that’s what I heard. It’s a little fuzzy.” 

Malcolm sat back on his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him, pretending at nonchalance. “Maybe Emrys is Morrigan’s father.”

Her jaw dropped slightly, and then she whipped her head around to face him. “That isn’t... that isn’t even remotely funny.”

He grinned. “I don’t know. I mean, for someone who goes on about half-breeds and such, I think it’s in the vicinity of being funny, were it true.”

“Only because he isn’t your grandfather.” She crinkled her nose in the way he found delightfully adorable, which was why he teased her. Otherwise, the risk to his life and limb would never be worth it.

And because it was worth it to him, he continued. “So, that would make Morrigan your... what? Half-aunt on your mother’s side?”

“We aren’t even contemplating this.”

“Which means, biologically, Cáel would be your—damn, I always get confused about how the cousin thing goes, first or second, removed or not, I can never keep them straight beyond first cousins, which he isn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter because you’re making this up.”

“I mean, you have to admit, you and Morrigan got along remarkably well, and Morrigan rarely gets along with anyone.” All right, now he had to admit he was freaking himself out a little bit. There really _could_ be a chance that Emrys was Morrigan’s father, and that was downright creepy.

“Malcolm,” came Líadan’s warning.

This time, he heeded it. “All right, I’ll let it go. I won’t even mention it to Emrys. Mostly because he’d set me on fire if I did, but still.”

“Good.” Líadan let out a long breath.

He slowly looked over at her. There was more, and he knew before she said it.

“There’s more.”

He waited.

She went on. “Remember when I went off for that chat with Keeper Marethari the other day?”

“Vividly.” Because it certainly hadn’t been a chat Líadan had had in mind. ‘Shouting match’ was what came to his mind after seeing her frustration directed at her Keeper.

“She told me she’d put something in my tea, the last time we’d visited and I’d gone to speak with her in her aravel at night.”

It took him a minute to catch up, to recall just what visit and what night. “You mean before we... that night when you came back and we...” He was fairly certain it was the time Ava had been conceived. There wasn’t any way around it. He sat up, any sign of ease entirely vanished. “So that’s how the Grey Warden with a Grey Warden part ended up being negated. But, why? She’s Dalish. She knows, she believes, like you and every other Dalish, in not having children with non-elves. I don’t understand why.”

“It isn’t like I do, either. All she’d tell me was that she owed _Asha’belannar_ a debt, and _Asha’belannar_ called in the debt by giving Keeper Marethari whatever was added to the tea. ‘To give Fate a push,’ she said.” Her voice was shakier than Malcolm liked, and her look toward Ava and the window beyond was fearful. “It’s something to do with our daughter. She either wants her for something or believes she’s an important part of whatever she sees for the future. I don’t know if I should protect her like Morrigan’s done with Cianán, or just assume that _Asha’belannar_ would have taken her already, if she had really wanted to.” Her hands tightened on the quilt. “I know I should be more worried about _Asha’belannar’s_ role, but all I can think is that Marethari agreed to it, she aided in it, and she’s the one who really did this to me.” Líadan pulled at the quilt, drawing her hands apart as if she wanted to rip it in two. “Then I look over at Ava and wonder how I could... and even after all that, if Emrys hadn’t done what he did, she wouldn’t have lived.”

He’d slipped behind her as she talked, and wrapped his arms around her as he pulled her to lean against his chest. “What happened?”

“She didn’t make a sound, Malcolm. No crying. No fussing, she wasn’t even moving. Just limp and there, and yet not there. Bethany couldn’t do anything. Anders tried and exhausted himself only to accomplish nothing. I had to yell, but Emrys finally stepped in, and whatever he did, he managed to help. She started moving and crying, like any other newborn.”

Sweet Andraste, he’d known it had been close, but he hadn’t realized just how close. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I knew the answers.”

Líadan reached up and held his arms against her. “I wish you did, too.”

Later, after she’d fallen into another exhausted sleep, Malcolm sat by the window. As he watched Hightown put itself together in the darkness below, he kept vigil, waiting for Flemeth to appear and snatch the babe away.


	71. Chapter 71

“And She came to me in a vision  ****

And laid Her hand on my heart.

Her touch was like fire that did not burn.

And by Her touch, I was made pure again.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Leliana**

She would not cry. Bards did not cry. Seekers did not cry. People who knew what they were doing when they set out to do it and should have seen the results coming did not cry. The silence in the chapel overwhelmed her, as did the silence within the turmoil of her soul. The Maker had once spoken to her directly there, in a language no human tongue could express, yet now she heard nothing at all. Perhaps He had turned His back on her, after all, just as Alistair had.

Part of her, the bard who had learned the ways of royal courts, who had learned what it took for nobility not only to survive, but to thrive, was proud of him. He would survive, provided he took care of Eamon as he needed to. 

She was not sure if she would survive. Alistair had the conviction of his emotions, as he always had, even as he searched for the one, elusive emotion: love. They had both believed they’d found it within each other, until she had betrayed them both. He had moved on, though he’d yet to fully recognize it. The part of her that was proud of him was also happy for him.

The other part mired in regret. 

If she could not have Alistair and what they shared during the Blight, then she needed the beacon of the Maker’s guidance, and she could not find it. Even before this, she had not been able to feel Him in the wind or the waves or the warm sunlight of the day. Now, she could not feel His hope or His love anywhere, even within.

Andraste remained equally as silent.

Leliana found a taper and lit one of the votive candles at Andraste’s feet, while offering up a prayer of her own that she would hear the Maker once again. If not that, then to at least feel His guidance, and know for certain that what she did was His will. She waited long into the night, half the candle melting away beneath the flame.

Footsteps echoed through the chamber, sending Leliana from her knees to her feet. At first she was eager, thinking that perhaps Alistair had returned, remembering what they had shared—and then she felt fear, that Alistair had come to kill her before she’d not only not finished the Maker’s work, but before she’d ever heard the Maker again. 

It was not Alistair, but it was an answer nonetheless.

“You look defeated,” said Dorothea once she was close enough to recognize Leliana’s face.

“I am.” The honesty startled Leliana in its haste to get out into the open. “I mean, I—I no longer hear the Maker. Not in my heart, not anywhere.”

Dorothea’s smile was kind. “Welcome to the doubt that plagues the rest of us day-to-day, child. You will regain your faith in the Maker, once you regain your faith in yourself. I take your defeated posture to mean you spoke with Ferelden’s King?”

“I have. Did. I did.” She gritted her teeth as she tripped over words. She was a bard, not some twelve-year-old who’d been rejected by a crush.

“Will he bring matters under control?”

“I do not know. He will speak with Eamon, I am certain of that much. But what I am not certain of is to what extent he will prevent Eamon from taking action against him. Despite how he’s grown and hardened his heart against the threats from life at court, he feels attachment to Eamon. Exile might be the harshest sentence he will be able to give.” And it would kill him, as certain as putting a sword into his own chest.

Dorothea frowned. “The evidence Cassandra told me you both gained was incontrovertible. Eamon clearly committed treason, and the penalty for treason is death, for good reason. To allow Arl Eamon to live would invite the King’s own death.”

“Alistair is hampered by his attachment to him. In Alistair’s mind, Eamon raised him, no matter how poorly he did it. To Alistair, who had nothing else, food and a roof over his head constituted parenting, and he believes it’s a debt that must be paid.”

“Then we must hope Queen Anora’s cooler, more logical head will prevail in this matter. Ferelden cannot be destabilized, which means King Alistair and his family must be kept alive, at any cost.” Dorothea smiled again. “Which reminds me.” Then she plucked a sealed letter from the pouch she had slung over her shoulder, and then handed it to Leliana. “This must be delivered to your friends. I had to call in some favors, yet I was able to convince the Divine that this dispensation must be granted, for stability’s sake. After the debacle with Ser Renaud and the zealots here, the Chantry must make amends with Ferelden. I convinced Her Perfection to begin with this.”

Leliana took the envelope, some of her heart lightening with it. The Maker had answered her prayer, after all. He had sent Revered Mother Dorothea to guide her, and to guide the Chantry. That was the Maker’s will.

Leliana felt her soul settle into the peace she had known before.

“Come,” said Dorothea. “There is a mage I wish to speak to.”

As she followed the Revered Mother from the chapel, Leliana asked, “Who?”

“Senior Enchanter Wynne. I believe we can sway her to our cause.”

**Alistair**

****Alistair needed to speak with… someone, really. Practically anyone, because he had no idea what to do. The first person he thought of was Wynne, and then realized she would tease him, and he would blush, and gave up on that idea. Then he thought of his brother, because despite him being younger, he seemed to have a healthy enough relationship with his own wife, and could dispense some advice. The teasing would be worse than it would be coming from Wynne, but he could endure it since there wouldn’t be blushing.

Then he remembered that his brother had absconded to Kirkwall with his wife and son, and was thus unavailable for a chat. Because that’s all he really needed, right? A chat. What Alistair really needed was said chat with his wife, but that was the source of the whole issue. She wholly unavailable for such a thing, which was a large part of the problem. Honestly, Malcolm was probably more accessible than Anora, at this point. She was polite, he had to give her that, but she was inexplicably more distant to him than she’d been during the Blight, and he couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like he’d taken off with Leliana, or had even considered it. Maker, after one night’s sleep on it, he’d realized he didn’t love Leliana. Maybe he had during the Blight, or at least loved the person he’d thought Leliana was, but he didn’t anymore. Not once he found out that her relationships were incredibly crowded, what with her and whatever other mortal person, plus the Maker and probably Andraste and that gave him a mental image that would haunt him forever.

And probably send him to the Void. Anders _had_ said Andraste was a looker.

Alistair shook his head. Right. Not things to think about, ever, but especially not when your wife was mad at you and you couldn’t figure out why, or even talk to her in order to get out the why. He’d considered Oghren as a source of advice, especially since Oghren had been shockingly sober lately while left to run the Denerim Grey Warden compound, but then remembered that Oghren’s own wife had taken off to the Deep Roads and left him behind. Plus, there were the stories Oghren told about Branka.

He crossed Oghren off the list.

There was Teagan, who was in Denerim, but Teagan had experience—Alistair assumed with women, with all the flirting he did with them, but Zevran had flirted with men and women both, so what did he know. There was also the matter of Teagan being more than a little irritated with him for exiling Eamon, who happened to be Teagan’s older brother. Though, Alistair wasn’t exactly sure if Teagan was angry because of Eamon’s exile, or because Teagan had been made the arl of Redcliffe, and had been perfectly happy at Rainesfere. Either way, he was out.

Then Alistair remembered that maybe he had another source for a brother, one whom Malcolm had used for the very same thing, many times: Fergus. Fergus would know.

He stood and went straight to Highever’s Denerim estate.

Luckily for him, Fergus was still there. He’d been talking about returning to Highever, but Alistair kept convincing him to stay, because he didn’t want to be abandoned to deal with the Seekers alone. He recognized that Fergus did need to go, and take Meghan Vael with him to keep her even safer than she’d be in Denerim, but after Leliana, well. Anora hadn’t been forthcoming with anything, and he’d needed someone in his corner. 

One of Fergus’ servants brought Alistair to the study, where Fergus was hard at work, because apparently being the teyrn of a teyrnir the size of Highever required a mountain of work. Sometimes, Alistair wondered if Fergus had to work more than he did, but then remembered that Fergus hadn’t replaced some key personnel of the type that helped Alistair do his own work. 

Fergus looked up from the parchment he was reading and lifted a questioning eyebrow in Alistair’s direction. “How can I help you, Your Majesty?”

Alistair rolled his eyes, which made Fergus grin. Alistair almost let loose an insult—because this was what they did, annoy each other—but remembered that he was here for help, and starting out with an insult wouldn’t make this any easier. At first, he went to sit down, then thought better of it and remained standing. This was the sort of chat that required pacing. “All right,” he said out loud, “when you said I was like a brother to you, you meant it, right?”

Some of Fergus’ amusement faded into confusion. “Of course I did.”

“So, how does it work when you need to ask a brother for advice?”

“Generally, you just ask.” Fergus put down his quill and sat back, clearly waiting for Alistair to do just that.

“I meant an older brother.”

“Works the same way.”

Alistair started to pace, even though he wished he wouldn’t. “All right, so I don’t know who to talk to about this, but… Anora seems… I just… she’s been off, lately. Distant, almost. Not cold, but it’s hard to describe.”

“Obviously.”

Alistair sighed. “All right, if you aren’t going to help, you could at least not make fun of me.”

 “It comes with the advice, but I’ll be nice for now. Now, is Anora angry with you?”

If she were, it would probably be easier to deal with, and possibly even less scary. “No, I don’t think so. That’s a different sort of reaction, and she hasn’t got any of her ‘I’m annoyed at Alistair’ tells she usually has when she is. It’s honestly almost like when we first got married and she talked with me like she would a stranger.”

Fergus sat forward a little bit, recognizing the problem as not a superficial one. “Has something happened between you?”

“Well, there was the whole thing with Leliana turning out to be alive and not dead.”

Now Fergus’ brow furrowed. “Has she said anything about it?”

“She asked me if I loved her.”

“Loved who? Anora asked you if you loved her? Who, her?”

“I mean, Anora asked me if I loved Leliana.” Andraste help him, if this was confusing Fergus, he was screwed.

“And you said…?”

Alistair dropped himself in one of the chairs, his pacing having served no purpose. “I told her I did, meaning that I had, you know, before. Not now.”

“Let me get this straight. You didn’t tell _Anora_ that you loved _Anora_? Because that’s what she was asking.”

He’d gotten that much, and he’d answered the best he could. “I told her she was my wife.”

Fergus stared at him. “In _addition_ to telling her you love her?”

“It’s the same thing! Sort of.”

“Do you love her?”

“I don’t _not_ love her.” Because, to be honest, Alistair wasn’t sure. He certainly cared about her, and didn’t feel the opposite of love toward her, not at all. If she was gone, he would miss her. Actually, he sort of missed her right now, distant as she was.

“Maker’s breath, how you Theirins manage to keep any man or woman in your lives, I will never know.” Fergus slumped in his chair, despairing of Alistair’s prospects. “Alistair, you idiot, she’s afraid. Maybe she cares about you more than she ever thought she would. Considering your dead lover has _returned from the dead_ , she probably feels more than a little threatened. And since her husband might love her, but can’t actually figure it out, much less say the words, she’s probably closing herself off and protecting herself. Or else why would she bother risking being hurt, just for you to gallivant off with your ex-lover?”

He blinked. “But I wouldn’t gallivant off with Leliana. I don’t _want_ to gallivant off with her.”

“Did you tell Anora that?”

“I… no.” Well, damn.

Fergus drew a hand over his face. “Do you want me to give you the same talk I had with Malcolm a couple years ago?”

Considering what Malcolm had managed to accomplish after said talk, and was now happily—usually—bonded with Líadan, Alistair supposed it had to be a good talk. “It worked with him, didn’t it?”

“Right.” Fergus nodded. “So here goes. No matter how much Anora might have come to care for you, far beyond her expectations, she isn’t going to risk her most vulnerable emotions—because Anora _does_ have them, despite evidence to the contrary—with a man who might just carry on in an affair with another woman.” He let out another sigh. “Alistair, she went through that sort of thing with Cailan. Now she’s dealing with a threat that might make even you do what Cailan did.”

“I’m not Cailan.” 

“You’re not Cailan, what? You need to say more. For all that you talk, sometimes you don’t say anything at all. What does it mean that you aren’t Cailan?”

Alistair hadn’t thought of it that way before. He figured saying he wasn’t Cailan would instantly make people understand that he wouldn’t do the same things as Cailan—such as lead a charge at the start of a Blight and get himself killed, or break vows he took very seriously. “I wouldn’t have an affair. I wouldn’t sleep with anyone who wasn’t my wife.”

“Which is something you should tell Anora.” Fergus sat back and drummed his hands on the desk, pondering his words. Then he asked, “Is she important to you?”

“Anora? Of course she is.” She was his wife, after all, which is what he’d been saying all along.

“Is she more important to you than anything else in your life?”

“I think our child might—”

“Kids don’t count in this equation. They carry too much emotional weight of their own. Set your future child, and any other children, including nieces and nephews, aside. Think about the rest. If your answer to my question is yes, then the implication that you might love her is clear. I have a sneaking suspicion Anora might feel the same, but hasn’t admitted it to herself. So she’s closing in, to keep herself safe from the same hurt she suffered with Cailan. So think on it, very hard. Then go tell her. Actually tell her, none of these declarations you assume say it all. Because they don’t. They do to you, but other people need to hear it with different words. Don’t be afraid to use them. Well, once you have your answer. Now scram, Your Majesty. You’ve got a lot of thinking to do, and I don’t want you brooding in my study while I try to get this work done. Highever doesn’t run itself, unfortunately, and I need to get back to my castle. There’s court to hold, things like that.”

Alistair mumbled a thank you and left the estate for the palace. Except, he didn’t make it there. He wandered instead, much to the consternation of his guards, through the city’s main marketplace and past the Denerim chantry—which he took great care to avoid going into—before finally heading for the Palace District. He dallied on the bridge, enjoying the annual week’s thaw they always got during Wintermarch. Soon enough, the cold air from the southern regions would return, and a walk like this would result in a frozen face. The unseasonably warm temperatures drew him away from the entrance to the palace and toward the gardens instead. The thaw had left the ground soaked in places where it wasn’t still frozen, leaves and dirt mixed into a muddy mess that clung to his boots. Come spring, the gardens would be green as the Brecilian Forest, but now they were varying colors of brown. Leather-brown, burlap-sack-brown, tree-bark-brown, dirt-brown, tanned-hide-brown, old-wood-brown, and then Alistair saw a bit of green.

At first, he thought it was a scrap of cloth, but he strode over to it, and on closer inspection, found a green seedling poking out from between two dead leaves next to a bench. He frowned, wondering how it had managed to sprout, and how it would only die in the following week, when winter returned. He hadn’t thought he’d find anything truly garden-like while wandering in them during the winter. It had simply been a way to avoid going inside to face, well, life. He’d discovered a speck of green in a barren land, growing when and where he’d least expected it. 

Oh, he realized. Anora.

That was how he felt about Anora, and while he wasn’t sure if it was love, he knew it could keep growing, if he let it. If he worked at it. He was willing to, if she was, because when he looked at everyone in his life, while his brother and Líadan and even Fergus, and certainly Cáel and eventually his niece who was probably born by now were close seconds, Anora really did come first, even before himself. He wasn’t happy right now, and that was because he knew he’d made Anora unhappy, and didn’t know how to fix it. Except now he did, because he’d talked to Fergus, and because he’d found this seedling of a tree. 

Which meant he needed to go find his wife and _tell her_ , which was easier said than done. The finding part was easy. This time of day, when she hadn’t any audiences to receive, she loved to sit in her solar and read. Anora was a voracious reader, Alistair had learned early into their marriage. While he did enjoy reading when given the chance, Anora equated knowledge to breathing, as far as he could tell. When she went more than a day without reading one of her books, she would become extremely cranky—at least around him, though the guards and staff and anyone else would never know it—until she took an hour and lost herself in a book.

He found her in the solar, curled up in a large chair as best she could with how much her middle had grown to accommodate their unborn child, reading a large book. She acknowledged his presence with a lifted eyebrow before her eyes snapped back to her book.

Damn. It had gotten worse. Now he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to, what he needed to say, and it all jumbled up in his head. Not to mention that he was, frankly, afraid, because Anora’s words had the potential to be incredibly sharp. 

Naturally, he went for humor. “So,” he said slowly, as he sat down across from her, “Teagan is a bit miffed at me.”

“Oh?” She didn’t look up from her book.

“Maybe even a little angry.” Which was true, he realized. Teagan was a bit mad at him and probably would be for some time. It was understandable. While Teagan understood that his brother had practically committed treason, it was still hard not to be angry with the person who exiled him. 

“Whatever for?”

“I did exile his brother.”

She did look up, finally. “Then you should remind him his brother is a traitor who should have been executed.” Then she went back to her book.

 _Maker_ , she was making this difficult, because now there would be a discussion he’d known was coming and one where they probably wouldn’t find agreement at all. “I couldn’t.”

She snapped the book closed and put it aside, which meant she was fully committing to whatever argument they were going to have. “Eamon is a traitor, Alistair, and you of all people know what sentence treason carries.”

“I know.”

“Clearly, you feel you owe him—”

“No, it wasn’t that.” Alistair knew quite well that if he didn’t explain why he’d interrupted her, her outrage would lead right to fury. Anora did not like being interrupted, ever. “I thought it was, but no.” What didn’t help Alistair was realizing he was afraid to tell her the largest reason why he’d not wanted to have Eamon executed. Certainly, it had been that old feeling of owing Eamon for what he’d done for Alistair as a child, but the _other_ reason had a lot more pull.

“Then why not?”

“I couldn’t do it again.” Maker’s breath, he was signing his own execution orders at this point.

She uncurled from her chair and placed her feet on the floor, and then crossed her ankles before addressing him. “You’ve decided on a moratorium for executions? I’m sure any condemned waiting at Fort Drakon will be pleased to hear of their commuted sentences.”

“No, not… I couldn’t.” He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, searching for courage, before he faced her again. “I couldn’t take a father from his daughter again.”

Anora opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it.

Alistair went on. “Rowan’s just a babe. If Eamon were executed now, she’d never even remember him.”

Her fingers twined together over her middle, and she glanced distantly out the window. “It would be easier on her if she did not.”

He shook his head. “No. I can tell you, as someone who grew up not knowing either one of his parents, it’s better to have known them, even if for a short time. You have a childhood of memories of your father, Anora. You have memories from adulthood. While mourning the loss hurts like nothing you’ve ever imagined, having an emptiness in your being because you have no mother or father to fill it is a harsher sentence. I couldn’t do that to Rowan. I couldn’t.”

“Does that make what you did to me by taking my father better?” She was startled by the question, as if she were just as surprised at the venom within it as he was.

“No, it doesn’t. It only makes it different. I’m sorry I was responsible for taking your father away from you.”

Anora was silent for a long, unbearable amount of time. Alistair nearly got up and left. Then she said, “You were not responsible. He was. He was a grown man with full agency, and his choices were his own. He knew as well as anything what would be coming to him if you and Malcolm prevailed. You are not to blame. You merely make a convenient target, since my father is not here to scold.” She stood from her chair to stand by the window and stare outside.

He understood. “I’m sorry all the same.” He was because he saw the hurt he’d inadvertently caused, and even though there hadn’t been another way, he wished there had been. He also wished the person he’d been back then had known an inkling of what he’d end up feeling here, in the future, about the daughter of a man he’d once hated so much.

“Will you be sorry when you take yourself from me to join your Orlesian lover, now that she is miraculously returned from the dead?” The venom had returned, and so did Alistair’s surprise. He had no idea where that question had come from, at least within this conversation.

“No?”

“You won’t be sorry? We will have a child, Alistair. You are King—”

He stood and held up his hands. “Wait, wait! I meant ‘no’ in terms of ‘no, of course I won’t be running off with the lying, tricking, sneaking Leliana’ and what in the Void would make you think I’d even consider that?”

She looked at him, an eyebrow arched. “Must I truly explain it to you?”

Back to the frosty cold again. He preferred the anger. It had more truth in it. “Well, no, actually. That was a rhetorical question. I need to explain… you know what? Come with me.” He took her by the hand and drew her out the door. Thankfully, she followed him without protest, though she did repeatedly express her bewilderment. 

Before she could get frustrated at attracting attention from the palace staff, he tried to explain before they got there. “There’s something I didn’t think would grow.”

“What?”

“It’s in the garden. Just… I’ll explain.”

“If this is what you are doing now, you are doing a poor job of it.”

He resisted rolling his eyes. “I know I am. Just hold on.” She did allow him to keep holding her hand as he brought her outside and into the garden, following him with minimal complaint as he hunted for the bench he’d found earlier. Right, there it was. He stopped in front of it and pointed down at the seedling. “This is what I didn’t expect to grow.”

She bent slightly to examine it, removing her hand from his at the same time in order to rub her own two together for warmth. “Alistair,” she said as she straightened, “I believe that’s a weed.”

This wasn’t going in the direction he thought it would. Roses were a lot clearer, but he didn’t have any roses, and roses weren’t what had given him the revelation in the first place. “I thought it was a tree, but maybe it’s a weed. Anyway, it’s you.”

She lifted the eyebrow again. “Are you comparing me to a weed?”

“What? No! Well, yes. But not like that.” To be honest, if he were doing _direct_ comparison of his wife to a plant, he’d pick a bramble. “I mean, here it is, winter, when the whole garden is bare and empty and brown, right? Then I look around this bench and there’s a bit of green. I thought, after everything that happened in the Blight, after everything that happened with that Landsmeet, even after we’d agreed to be married and then were married, that I was that dirt. Dry and empty and something where I couldn’t… I didn’t think I would care for anyone again, not like this. Not like love, and yet, there you are, my bit of green, entirely unexpected and not unwelcome. Now, maybe you don’t love me, and that’s all right, and maybe it’s just a start on love on my part. I don’t know, because I’m not used to this kind of feeling being actually true. But there’s the potential for growth there, if I work at it. Sort of like in the garden, and… and I just realized I’m talking about a weed and how they’re ripped out of the ground and discarded and my metaphor was an awful choice.”

His poor choice had really become apparent in the way that she just stared at him.

Alistair wondered if Anora would find a way to raise Loghain from the dead to kill him. Then he realized that if she wanted to kill him, she had probably been taught by her father exactly how to do so. Anora was good at delegating, but there were some things one just did not delegate. 

He rubbed at his eyes and readied himself for another go. “All right, let’s try again. Plainly, this time. Ready? Here. I don’t love Leliana. I don’t want to go anywhere with Leliana. I never want to go anywhere with Leliana. I don’t want to love Leliana, because I’m fairly certain I’m starting to love you, the woman who happens to be my wife.”

She blinked, though Alistair wondered if it was just from the slight chill of the air around them. Then she said, “This… this is unexpected.”

Obviously it was, because Anora didn’t tend to repeat words like she just had. Anora did not stutter. Anora chose her words carefully before she said them, because that’s who she was. 

“I had thought you would be like Cailan. Not entirely, not dallying with as many other women as he took a fancy to, but choosing to spend your time and invest your emotions with another woman whom you loved. I had mistakenly applied that to you.”

Once again, Alistair wanted to punch his dead brother, and if this sort of thing got him sent to the Void, at this rate, he’d never see the Maker’s side. “There was a reason why I’d told you that you were my wife, Anora. We took vows. I take vows pretty seriously. Even if I didn’t think I was starting to fall in love with you, I still wouldn’t run off with Leliana, or anyone else, for that matter, because you’re my wife. End of story.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood because he’d seemed to make it incredibly dismal. “Well, maybe not the end, if the love thing turns out to work.” When he thought he saw Anora’s eyes widen with fear—of course, widen for her was something only he would notice, at this point—he rushed to keep her from emotionally hiding. “You don’t have to feel the same, or feel compelled to feel the same, or even say anything, really. I just wanted you to know how I felt, and I’m apparently not very good at explaining it.”

“Neither am I,” Anora said, rather quietly, as if just realizing it. “My examples were not very healthy ones, nor very expressive in traditional ways. My father’s way of declaring his love for my mother was to carry home a rosebush, but insisting on carrying it by hand, allowing all the thorns to gouge him bloody on the way. My mother never said one way or another. She did tell me that she loved me, but my father was never one to express things with words. If asked, he would probably have denied possessing emotions at all.”

“It isn’t like my examples were any better, mostly since I lacked them entirely. I know I’ve got a weak spot when it comes to Eamon. I know. I know, rationally, that I don’t owe him anything at this point, because he did an awful job of raising me, so awful that I don’t think he technically raised me, at all. Housed, maybe. Sort of. Regardless, he isn’t the example one should cling to when it comes to healthy relationships of any kind, but whatever he was to me was all I had. Now there’s… there’s all this and I’m not really any better at this than you are. But I’m not going to leave you, emotionally or physically. I’m in this, Anora. I’m not Cailan.”

She finally looked up at him, as if appraising him in an entirely new light. “No,” she said. “I daresay you are not.”

**Meghan**

Meghan’s audience with the queen was delayed, which surprised her. Anora was reputed to be highly punctual, and Anora had called the audience, which bewildered Meghan even more. The audience was to be in a solar, which Meghan believed a good sign. However, her belief did nothing for the trepidation gnawing at her calm. “Do you have any idea what the delay is?” she asked the guard who’d escorted her.

He shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. Not normal, though, Lady Vael.”

“She went outside with the King,” said the guard at the hallway entrance. “Well, he was pulling her by the arm. I mean, she was going willingly. Maker, that came out wrong.” The woman gave a shake of her head. “He probably surprised her. He does that a lot. King Alistair is highly unpredictable, at times. Makes our jobs harder.”

Meghan’s escort snorted. “You should hear the complaints of the poor saps who end up bodyguards instead of just regular Royal Guards. Oscar has begged for a new assignment every day before the Prince and Lady Líadan get back from Kirkwall. He says it’s too hard, that they’re practically trying to kill themselves, and he can’t possibly be expected to keep her safe, because no one can.”

“I reckon the other Grey Wardens can,” said the hall guard opposite the first.

“Look lively, ladies and gents,” called another guard from farther up the corridor. “Her Majesty is on her way.”

The guards snapped to attention, though they’d barely relaxed in the first place, as Queen Anora bustled down the hallway, skirts in her hands to allow her to move quicker. Her cheeks and nose were rosy, as if she’d been outside. What really caught Meghan’s attention was that Anora looked as if she were ready to birth Ferelden’s heir apparent at any given moment. The other thing she noticed was that Anora wasn’t perfectly composed. She was mostly there, but as Meghan was a royal herself, she understood what to look for when it came to hints of anger, irritation, or being disconcerted. She saw signs of the latter, but none of the former, and was surprised to be able to discern anything at all, given Anora’s legendary perfect composure.

Well, at least she was not irritated, angry, or annoyed. A good sign. However, on closer inspection, the Queen looked flustered. It was not something Meghan expected to see.

When Anora had closed the distance between them and motioned for her to join her in the solar, Meghan curtsied. Once inside, she asked, “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?”

“I did.” Anora extended a hand to an armchair across from the one she stood in front of, ready to sit down. “Please, take a seat.” She waited for Meghan to settle herself before Anora said, “If you would be amenable to it, I would like to hear what you told Seeker Leliana.”

“Told who?” Meghan had never heard of this person. 

Anora’s lips tightened. “You must know her as someone else. I am speaking about the person to whom you told the details of your conversation with Arlessa Isolde.”

Meghan had already heard rumors—confirmed by Highever’s servants through gossip from Redcliffe’s—that Isolde and Eamon had left indefinitely for Isolde’s family estates in Orlais. Eamon’s brother, Bann Teagan, had been left as the new arl of Redcliffe. Since the King had already decided on a version of mercy, and the Guerrins now permanently out of the country, Meghan did not believe she needed to withhold information. “There wasn’t much, Your Majesty,” she said out loud. “She said she believed Eamon had moved from simple paranoia into extremism. He believed magic needed to be removed from the Theirin line. I wasn’t sure if this extended to the King, or if he was just speaking of Prince Malcolm and Prince Cáel, but all Sister Nightingale needed was news of Eamon declaring that all magic needed to be removed from the line. She said she knew what to do, and would see that the Theirins were not betrayed. That was it.”

“Your Sister Nightingale is, in fact, a Seeker of the Chantry. Seeker Leliana.”

Her skin went cold as fear slipped in, that she may have inadvertently revealed something of import to a Seeker, and that she would now be kicked out of Ferelden for doing so. Even worse, the Seekers could notify—either directly or indirectly—the Vael family’s murderers of her location. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I told her anything that would put Ferelden in danger, Your Majesty, though I understand if you wish for me to leave the country.” Meghan mulled over the name; she could it familiar and could not place why.

“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” said Anora, an eyebrow lifting slightly in surprise. “I merely wished to ascertain what the Seekers know, and what Eamon’s plans had been, if you knew any detail. There is also the matter of your safety. With the Seekers possessing knowledge of your exact accommodations, it may be in your best interest to find something more secure. If you cannot find anything among Teyrn Fergus’ holdings, we would be happy to guard you here, at the palace.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The feeling of danger shifted from being kicked out to possibly being killed.

“You are welcome. We did promise you protection, and we meant it. Ferelden and the Crown will do everything possible to see to your safety. Now, I suspect you have arrangements to make, so you have my leave to go.”

Another curtsy, and then Meghan left for Highever’s Denerim estate. She had a lot of planning to do. At this rate, she feared she might only be left with joining the Chantry in Kirkwall as an avowed sister. As she sat at a table in Highever estate’s library and pored over a map of Thedas, it seemed the only solution. She couldn’t even join the Grey Wardens, not with her crippled hand.

There was a cursory knock on the door, and then Teyrn Fergus strolled in, looking amused at something, which Meghan suspected he would share with her. He always loved to share amusement with others. “So,” he said as he sat across from Meghan, “I just had a visit with our illustrious King—my illustrious King, I suppose, since you Starkhaven people don’t believe in kings.”

“Only once did Starkhaven have a king,” she said, enjoying the banter she often had with him about the differences between Ferelden and Starkhaven. “It didn’t end well, and so it’s been Vael hereditary princes or princesses since then.” She folded her hands over the map. “What made your visit interesting?”

“Oh, he needed advice, because sometimes, Theirins can be remarkably thick-headed. They assume they’ve explained something in enough detail to avoid confusion and doubt, and then are shocked when people are still confused and doubtful. Alistair does this, and my brother isn’t much better. So, how was your day?”

His enthusiasm was infectious, and Meghan couldn’t help but smile, despite the knowledge she’d gained earlier. “My interesting meeting with the Queen today revealed that the Chantry sister I had been speaking with often in order to ease my mind is really a Seeker.”

“Really?”

“The Queen kindly informed me that Sister Nightingale is actually Seeker Leliana.”

Fergus let out a low whistle. “Do you recognize the name?”

“No, I don’t believe I do. I admit, it does sound vaguely familiar.” She hadn’t been able to place why, and so she’d dismissed it. Some names always sounded familiar, even if you had no reason for familiarity.

“ _Sister_ Leliana, once an Orlesian bard, was one of the companions who accompanied my brother and the King—then bastard princes—during the Blight.” His amusement had not waned as he quirked a smile at her. “She’s the King’s ex-lover, once thought to be dead. I never met her, given that I didn’t manage to make my way to Redcliffe until just after her supposed death. Anyway, it’s been emotionally messy around the palace, due to her reappearance.”

Meghan could easily imagine. “Is that why the King came to you for advice?” Alistair hadn’t seemed the sort of monarch to engage in affairs. For all appearances, he presented as very devoted to his wife, which had taken Meghan by surprise, given the political nature of their marriage.

Fergus studied her for a moment, his eyes warm with friendship as he measured something within her, before he nodded to himself. “You aren’t one for repeating gossip, so, yes. I think Alistair’s political marriage has turned out to be something more, and he was confused. Since he was confused _and_ a block-headed Theirin, it meant he was really not effectively communicating his feelings to Anora.”

“Obviously, if his former lover has returned, she would feel threatened, even if she did not have feelings for him.”

“Exactly. And I believe she does. I grew up spending time with Anora, since we were both heirs of teyrnirs, so I know her tells better than most. I think she cares for Alistair a lot more than she did Cailan, but if you know anything about the rumors regarding our former king, you know Cailan did a lot to damage what may have formed between them.”

She had heard the rumors. Every royal family on Thedas probably knew, though it was never spoken about openly, not in Starkhaven. “And yet he had no illegitimate children?” That had certainly come as a surprise to those among her family who had talked about it, especially in light of Maric being revealed to have two illegitimate sons. If anyone would have been suspected to have illegitimate children, it would have been Cailan, not Maric.

“None,” said Fergus. “And we searched high and low to see if we could find a missing heir.”

“Yet, Eamon wanted to wipe out the current Theirin line? Did he mean both brothers? Or just Prince Malcolm and his children?”

Fergus shrugged. “Both, I assume. Eamon assumed many things, and believed both Alistair and Malcolm to be threats of their own kind.”

“He was still a strong proponent of the Theirin line itself, was he not?” Her brow furrowed. “Who would he support without any Theirins?”

“Alistair told me that Eamon had been led to believe there’s a Theirin heir of some sort in Orlais. Our guess is from a bard who may have slept with Cailan, or Maric, or possibly even Brandel. We were never given any specifics, nor can we seem to find any.”

The most obvious answer rested right in front of them, Meghan believed, and because they were all so close to the situation, none of them saw it for what it was. “Could this Sister Leliana have had a child by the King before he ascended the throne?”

Fergus straightened so quickly from his easy slouch that he nearly toppled from his chair. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I assumed, since she’d been so convincingly dead, that nothing of this sort could have happened, but I could be wrong. Maker, why didn’t we see it before? It’s probably not true, given the circumstances, but I suppose I should tell someone. This is all so complicated. Maker, I miss the north.”

Meghan missed not being surrounded by quite this much turmoil and intrigue. “The Queen did advise me to find more secure quarters. If I could not find anything else, she did invite me to take residence at the palace.”

“Well then, I fancy going back to my almost-nice home on the northern coast,” said Fergus. “What about you? Ever been to Ferelden’s northern coast?”

“I have not.”

“Would you like to? By all means, if you want to stay at the palace, I won’t be offended.”

“I think I would like to be on the coast.” She’d heard that Castle Highever was nicely situated by the Waking Sea, and she missed living right next to a body of water. 

Fergus grinned at Meghan. “Then please come with me to my wrecked, undergoing repairs, not quite a ruin of my family’s ancestral castle.”

“I would be delighted.”

“Good. Before we go, however, I… I have this friend.”

She gave him a curious look. “I’ve never heard anything good that was preceded by that sentence.”

“Well, now you will, if you’ll allow it. I trust this woman with my life, with my brother’s life, with my nephew’s life, with my sister-in-law’s life, with anyone I care about, really. She’s a wonderful woman.”

“That’s nice,” said Meghan, because she had no idea where Fergus was going. In her experience, with the way he’d started, she’d figured he was setting her up with someone. But now that he was bringing up this person with whom he trusted with his family’s collective lives, she wasn’t so sure.

“Thing is, she’s a mage who happens to be the best healer on Thedas. No exaggeration. Ask any member of any Circle, or any templar who’s served at a Circle, and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Good for her?” She now suspected where he was leading, but she let him continue.

He gave a slight roll of his eyes at her distinct lack of enthusiasm toward his build-up, but was undaunted. “Would you consent to allowing her to look at your arm and hand? I know you’ve resisted having a magical healer look at it, but I’ve watched you struggle for weeks with getting it to work properly, and not get anywhere. I’ve seen how frustrated you’ve been over it. I like to think of you as my friend, and I don’t like seeing my friends suffer, especially needlessly. If you agree to see her, you can put any restrictions you wish on the visit, including whoever you want present, in addition to her. If you want a templar or ten, I can get them for you.” He paused and reconsidered. “Well, all right, if you want ten templars, I might have to ask Alistair for some help, but you get what I mean.”

Meghan desperately wanted her arm and hand to work as they once had, without thought, without effort, without clumsiness. After witnessing what paranoia against magic had done to Eamon and his family, she didn’t want to follow the same path. “All right,” she said. She wanted others there, and knew that templars could control mages to a certain extent, but didn’t trust them as representatives of the Chantry any more than she did mages. “As much as I’d like someone there who could potentially control a mage, I trust templars about as much as I do mages, which is to say, not very much.”

Fergus scratched at his goatee, which Meghan had seen him do plenty of times while thinking. The teyrn often did and said things with great deliberation, and his friendliness and affability, coupled with his thoughtfulness, had proven him very adept at politics, and at keeping friends. “What about Alistair? He’s templar-trained, but never took vows. Became a Grey Warden, instead. There’s also Warden Thierry, who spent actual time as a templar before he became a Grey Warden.”

Grey Wardens were notoriously neutral, and up until the Fifth Blight, they were neutral to the point of doing nothing when it came to civil disputes and governmental matters. Though, they’d been swayed from that course of neutrality during recent events. That deviation had come out of necessity, she’d learned during her stay in Ferelden, and were not Chantry-driven changes. It seemed an acceptable compromise. “That might work,” she said out loud. “Yes. Let’s try that.”

Except when Wynne studied Meghan’s arm at great length, using various applications of magic, the outcome remained the same. The most that could be done for Meghan’s arm had already been done, and neither folk healing nor magic could do anything more. Though Meghan had found herself liking and trusting Wynne, and that ability to trust had allowed her hope to build, disappointment and sadness clung to her as she left the room.

Not even magic could repair the damage done.


	72. Chapter 72

“I used to have a master, a mage. He fed me well, never beat me, even taught me how to read so I could do his accounts. But if he had a theory or spell he wanted to test out, he’d get out his daggers, have the other servants tie me to a post, and carve furrows into my skin. I was so afraid. Every time, I was sure I would die. But at worst I’d collapse, get bandaged up, and lie in bed too weak to move for days. The other slaves visited me in secret to survey the damage. I’d heal just enough before he needed blood again.” ****

—from _An Anonymous Account of the Long Walk,_ as told to Brother Pekor of Ferelden, circa -140 Ancient

**Líadan**

****The first time Líadan woke up, it was to her daughter crying, shushing noises from Nuala, and then Líadan fell back asleep before Nuala had even finished feeding Ava. The second time she woke up, Nuala had taken Ava out of the room, Malcolm was washing his face over the basin in the room, and Líadan felt strange. It was almost like the early stages of her pregnancy, when her breasts had hurt, except now they hurt more, a lot more, and were not the same ones she’d gone to sleep with.

Of course her milk had come in on the early end instead of later, which would have been not at all for her had she been able to convince the healers to rush her healing instead of waiting. She poked at one experimentally and winced at the pain. Mythal’s mercy, she never wanted to do this again. Slowly, she slid out of the bed, intent on figuring out what to do about this new problem.

Malcolm turned at the sound of her feet hitting the floor, and then stepped over as if to help her from the bed, like she were some sort of invalid. She was fine. Well, fine enough to stand on her own, but she doubted she could run out and go on a hunt. Then Malcolm stopped short and gaped at her. “What… what happened?” Taken by his curiosity, Malcolm reached out, as if to feel her breasts through her linen shirt.

Líadan slapped his hand away before he made them more painful. “Don’t touch them! Just… don’t.” Then she noticed he was shirtless, and really wished she wasn’t so hampered. Winter in Ferelden meant not shirtless a lot of the time, and she would be the first to admit she liked to admire him when given the chance. Not that she’d tell him. It’d go straight to his head.

Instead of being hurt by her actions, Malcolm was puzzled. “Why? Sore like in the beginning?”

“Worse.” She hadn’t thought they could get worse than they’d been back then, but they had. Overnight, they felt like they’d doubled in size—though she knew it wasn’t truly that much—and they’d become hard, almost like the mortar used between cobblestones. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a spell. But I know better. I think.” Creators damn it, she wanted her mother again. She’d have known what to do, and Líadan wouldn’t feel strange asking her. But her mother wasn’t here. She never would be. The pride demon had more than made that fact clear. What it hadn’t done was stop the pain of missing her.

Malcolm was regarding her strangely, and kept casting anxious looks at the door. “You want me to go find Bethany? Possibly Marian, but Marian isn’t really the healer-type and would probably crack a lot of inappropriate jokes. Anders might be around, but I guess talking to him would depend on your comfort level.”

None of them were familiar enough. Bethany was almost there, but she was too young. Malcolm was entirely right about Marian, and Anders was… he was different. He wasn’t the same Anders she’d known in Ferelden, and while she trusted that Anders implicitly, this version of Anders didn’t engender the same trust. “I don’t know.”

“Then I haven’t the foggiest. How about a non-mage? There’s Lady Amell, or maybe Nuala?”

“I really don’t know.”

Malcolm seemed momentarily frustrated, but let it go quickly. His anxious helpfulness, however, hadn’t abated, and it only served to frustrate Líadan more. It also didn’t help that Nuala chose that moment to rap quickly on the door before she walked right in, a sleeping Ava in her arms. 

She halted and raised an eyebrow at seeing Líadan. “Well, that was quick.”

Líadan wanted to cross her arms in annoyance at seeing the faint amusement in Nuala’s eyes, but she didn’t, because her breasts hurt that much. “I don’t need comments. I need to know how to fix it.”

“There’s a few things we could try.” Nuala turned to Malcolm and extended the bundled Ava. “Go put your daughter in the cradle.” After casting both women a dubious look, Malcolm did as he was told. Nuala returned to Líadan, her amusement having disappeared, replaced by concern. “First thing I’d try is binding them.”

The very thought made Líadan wince.

Nuala nodded. “I know. Counterintuitive, right? The strapping them down part will hurt, no lie, but once that’s done, it’s a little more bearable.”

“A little more?”

“Until we get your milk to dry up, they’ll stay full like they are, and no two ways about it, they’ll hurt.”

“Maker’s breath,” said Malcolm, “I have never been so glad not to have—”

Without looking, Líadan pointed at him to make him stop. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence, or you will never, ever touch them again.”

“Shutting up now.”

Nuala glanced between the two of them before settling on Líadan again. “Maybe we could ask Anders or Bethany or even that Marian if one of them could use a healing spell that helps with the pain? It’s something we never had access to in the Alienage, but after working with Enchanter Wynne as much as I have, I know it’s possible. Were she here, I’d ask about the potions she gave you early on, but by the time we get back to Ferelden, you should be dried up.” She frowned. “Well, unless you accidentally express milk, then it could go on longer, because that tricks your body into thinking you’re feeding a babe, so it won’t stop producing the milk that’s causing so much of the pain in the first place. On that note, until everything’s back to normal, don’t take hot baths. Don’t put anything warm on them, and definitely don’t squeeze them.” She tossed a pointed look in Malcolm’s direction. “Or let anyone else, for that matter.”

Anders. Healing. Maybe he could fix the entire problem by healing quickly what her body would take much too long to heal by itself. She glanced over at Malcolm. “Could you go get Anders for me, please?”

“Absolutely.” Malcolm stood, put on a shirt, and left the room, though he did glance over at Líadan one last time. She was sure it was to take another look at her chest. Part of her couldn’t blame him. Were they not technically her own—even though they felt like a stranger’s—she’d have done the same.

Not wanting to talk about them any longer, Líadan asked Nuala, “Where’s Cáel?”

“Lady Amell’s taken a liking to him. She’s entertaining him at the moment, or he’s entertaining her, I’m not such which, but she’s definitely using him to guilt Marian about not having any grandchildren yet. Lady Amell is… she’s quite an outspoken woman, but in her own unique way.”

Líadan smiled as she went to the basin to clean her teeth and wash her face. She could at least do that, hurting chest or not. “Malcolm told me she reminds him of Teyrna Eleanor.”

Nuala practically jumped. “You know, she does. No wonder Bethany likes being in Ferelden while her mother’s in Kirkwall. Bethany’s gotten her share of guilt, from what I’ve seen, but Marian’s getting the brunt of it. I think because she has a suitor. That prince from Starkhaven?”

“It’s chaste, though. Not Marian’s choice, from what I’ve been told, but not likely to produce children in its current iteration. They’re also not married yet, either. I’ve heard that’s important to human nobility.”

“Well, once they’re married, no matter what god or gods they do or do not believe in, the chaste bit is over.”

“That’s what you or I or pretty much anyone else would think, but Sebastian has other ideas.”

“That is just absurd.”

The door opened, and Anders stepped in, with Emrys, Marethari, and Merrill close behind, and Malcolm sheepishly bringing up the rear. He mouthed to her that he was sorry, and then shrugged. “They were with Anders, and when I told Anders you’d asked for him, they all decided they’d come up, too. Even _after_ I told them why I needed him. I thought that would scare them away.”

“Hate to tell you this,” Anders said to him, “but, generally, breasts and their workings after a birth don’t frighten healers. In fact, there’s very little that would truly gross us out. It’s very likely that no matter what it is, we’ve seen worse.”

Líadan scowled, because she really hadn’t wanted an entire audience. On the other hand, every person there was technically some sort of family to her. But _still_. “All right, someone tell me, how long will this last?”

Anders briefly glanced up at the ceiling as he did calculations in his head. “Three days, a week, possibly even two weeks. But there’s a spell that can dry—“

“There’s a spell to fix it?” She wanted to punch him for not offering it right away, yet didn’t want to risk harming the man who could help. “That should have been the first thing you said. ‘I have a spell to fix this. Do you mind? No? Here you go.’ Then explanations, because we all already know these—” she motioned toward her chest “—aren’t going to be used for what they’re meant for, not if we want to keep Ava alive.” She paused, and then went barreling on with the rest of what she wanted. “For that matter, why are we keeping up this pretense that we have to let me heal naturally, in case I wanted another child? Because everyone here, one way or another, knows that Wardens don’t generally have children at all.” She took a breath and glared at Marethari. “This child shouldn’t have happened, and would not have without intervention that I didn’t know about or consent to, but that’s a matter for another time. There’s no need to wait to heal me.”

“Are you certain, _da’len_?” asked Marethari. “It is a very significant choice—”

“And once it’s done,” said Emrys, his declaration marching right over the other Keeper’s words, “there’s no going back.”

Líadan frowned. “I’m not mentally incapacitated. Having recently given birth didn’t take away my ability to think rationally, so stop treating me like I’m not capable of thinking this through.”

“Giving it a few days would make for better options. There would be no problems at all if you waited the usual week that hunters take before Keepers heal them,” said Marethari. 

“I don’t have a week. We need to get out of this city and back to Ferelden as soon as possible. Even with healing me, that would be a few days. Knight-Commander Meredith will be here the second she has a free moment away from the mess the qunari left and remembers that we’re here. Not to mention that the Seekers are still in Denerim, and Creators know what they’ll do if we don’t return.”

Emrys glared in Malcolm’s direction before saying to Líadan, “There is still a chance, if you found a Dalish man to—”

To Liadan’s surprise, Merrill interrupted him before she could. “What?” asked Merrill. “Keeper, if you’re hoping Líadan will bond with another elf, she won’t. She’s been bonded to Malcolm by Keeper Lanaya, and the Creators wouldn’t agree to breaking a bonding, human involved or not.”

“From the research I’ve done, it’s unlikely she would have another child, not even with a non-Warden,” said Anders. “There’s really not a point to denying the facts of the matter.”

She’d had it. They were all gathered and talking about her, rather than _to_ her. “None of this matters. What matters is that this is my choice, and you all should respect it. If none of you will help me, I’ll find someone who will.” Of course, if Marethari agreed, Líadan couldn’t trust her to go through with it. Emrys wasn’t far behind when it came to trusting him, but she also knew that, unlike Marethari, he didn’t want any more elf-blooded children from someone of his line. As for Anders, he still wasn’t quite himself. Most of the time, he seemed like it, and then something would go wrong. An unfamiliar mannerism, differences in the cadence of his words, sudden losses of temper, each incident piled up to remind Líadan that Anders wasn’t the friend she’d known a year ago. He was mostly a stranger. A kind stranger, but a stranger who had replaced her friend, and she’d never gotten a chance to mourn.

Nor had they really gotten the chance to save him, and she was afraid that chance had long passed them by.

So, when Emrys said, “I will do as she asks,” Líadan was relieved, because out of the three, she could trust his work the most. Though, when she got back to Denerim, she would still have Wynne double check.

“I will be leaving for Sundermount,” said Marethari. “I have matters to attend with my clan.”

Merrill stared after her as she left, and Líadan fought anger at her former Keeper for not even acknowledging Merrill. Then Merrill sighed, and without saying a word to anyone, stepped out the door. Right then and there, Líadan made plans to find Marethari and speak with her again, for Merrill’s sake. Both of them needed to be saved, and they could really only save each other, if they’d take a single second to stop being so stubborn.

When Malcolm hadn’t yet moved to leave, Nuala shot him a look, and then jerked her head toward the door. “Come on. You’ve a little boy who hasn’t seen you all morning.” Then she started for the door. Líadan nodded when Malcolm glanced over and silently checked with her, and he started following Nuala out. On the way by Anders, he grabbed the mage by the arm and brought him with them.

Then the door closed, leaving Líadan alone with her grandfather. He raised his eyebrows at her as he lifted his hands, silently asking permission. She nodded and settled back on the bed. She’d seen enough healing done for fellow hunters and other members of the clan who’d had their own children to know it wasn’t invasive. It took some time, more than healing a simple injury, but not too long. The most uncomfortable part would be the length of time spent one-on-one with her grandfather. His comments about Ava and her non-Dalishness, along with his strange exchange with _Asha’belannar_ in the Beyond, and his painful offer to Merrill to join the Suriel, left Líadan more unbalanced than usual when it came to Emrys. Then there was the matter of him being a Dreamer, and the other not-so-little matter of him being incredibly, impossibly old.

“How old are you, really?” she asked as he healed her.

“Very old. The Suriel usually stay very far away from humans and their cities, as you well know. These past months have been the longest amount of time my clan and I have been near the shemlen. I imagine it will shorten the lives of many, my own included.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“ _Da’len_ , you’re perfectly capable of doing the arithmetic. Keeper Marethari taught you and Merrill that there hasn’t been a surviving Dreamer in over three hundred years. I was the last known Dreamer, up until this Feynriel survived.” Bitterness curled briefly along his lips. “That a half-breed would inherit such a powerful gift—”

“My daughter, the one you saved, is one of those half-breeds.”

Emrys pressed his lips into a straight line. “I saved her for you. It was the first time you called me ‘Grandfather’ since before your parents died.”

“I know exactly what I said and why.” She’d wanted to draw out the loving, caring grandfather she’d known when she was a child. She’d wanted that absolute sense of safety; she’d wanted the elf she’d believed could have done anything, up to and including the impossible. “Whatever your reasons were, you still saved her.” Though Líadan wasn’t sure that Emrys saved Ava only for her. “She’s still your blood-kin, and human as she might be, she still carries the blood of the People. More than you think.”

“More than I think?”

“Her father is elf-blooded.”

Emrys quickly looked at the door, as if he could see Malcolm from where he stood. “He looks nothing like any elf-blooded child I’ve ever seen. There is nothing _elvhen_ in his features.” He frowned, at himself, not her. “Yet it isn’t something humans do, claim to have an elf for a parent. Humans hate it just as much as we do, producing children who aren’t one or the other, existing somewhere in between. It seems your child’s father escaped that burden, if it’s true.”

She did her best to ignore the hurtful words within what her grandfather said. “I met his mother. He may not look anything like her, but the ways in which he acts very much are.”

“I think I would like to meet this woman.”

“She’s dead.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“For Malcolm, it was a lot more than _unfortunate._ He lost his adoptive mother and his birth mother both in less than two years. He’d only known his birth mother for a few months before she died. So it was a lot more than _unfortunate_ that Fiona died so suddenly. It—”

“You were close to her,” Emrys said, cutting off her scolding, though he kept at healing her. “Weren’t you?”

She looked up at the ceiling rather than at her grandfather. “I suppose. Yes.” She’d been taken from her clan and lost Marethari’s guidance in the process, and before that, she’d lost her own mother, and Fiona had been… Fiona had been there, a steady presence, and Líadan hadn’t realized how attached she’d gotten to the other woman until Fiona was gone. “She died right in front of me. I couldn’t save her. No one could.”

“Like your own mother.”

The sentence was spoken neutrally, without judgement, but it hurt to hear nonetheless. Had Fiona’s death been like her own mother’s? Templar’s blade or Joining potion, she’d been unable to stop either one from happening, even though she’d been so close as to witness each one. With both women, she’d been so sure they’d always be alive, that they’d survive whatever came at them, that their deaths had taken her by surprise. “I couldn’t save either of them. _Abelas, abelas ama’din Mamae_.” She slipped into Elvish as she apologized for causing her mother’s death. If she hadn’t been frozen in place, if she had _acted_ , then her mother would have been alive, her mother would have been here with her, and that demon never would have had a chance to make her even think about giving in. Instead, she’d come so very close to being fooled, all because she desperately wanted her mother.

The warm glow from Emrys’ hands disappeared as he stopped his healing to take her gently by the shoulders. “Whatever you might believe, what happened to your mother, to your parents, wasn’t your fault. You have no need to apologize for their deaths. None. It is not a blame for you to bear. If anyone is at fault, it is me. You should never have developed the Gift. You should not be a mage. The power of the magic carried in my blood—and your mother’s and yours—is abnormally strong. That you show any magic at all is a testament to how strong it runs in our line. That fault lies with me, and perhaps my own mother, but not with you. Never with you.”

She would not cry. She would not, no matter how much easier she seemed to do so in the past day. “It doesn’t bring her back.” Her hands curled into tight fists as she resisted the tears. “Nothing will bring her back.”

“No, nothing will.” Emrys struggled with mourning that was a reflection of Liadan’s, and hastily went back to healing her.

Líadan was happy enough to let the subject go. It hurt too much to keep thinking about something that could never be fixed.

“You should be prepared,” Emrys said after some time had passed, his voice back under tight control. “I doubt the Gift will end with you.”

She cast a despairing look over at her sleeping daughter. “I don’t want her to have magic.” If it were even remotely possible, she would have petitioned the Creators to keep it from happening, if such a thing could be prevented. With everything horrible that happened to mages on this world, she did not want her daughter to suffer through it. For that matter, neither did she want her son to suffer through it. She wanted both her children to possess as little magic as their father. Which was to say, none at all.

“Fate is rarely so kind to grant us our wishes,” said Emrys. “Fate only follows its own whims, leaving us to its mercy. Those who attempt to tame it, to master it, are doomed to fail. They would mire in their regrets and time lost to a futile fight. I know it all too well.”

“You sound like _Asha’belannar_.”

“She has many lessons to teach, _da’len_. You would be wise to listen, as you used to listen to me.”

“When we were in the Beyond, I remembered some of the talks we had when I was little.”

He chuckled softly. “You were determined, even then.”

“Once, you thought to bring me to your clan.”

“If you had the Gift, yes. Other things happened. Fate and life intervened, as they often do.”

“You asked Merrill to join your clan.” Because Merrill’s Gift was far stronger than her own ever would be. Merrill’s Gift was an ear-piercing shout, while hers was a whispering echo.

“Ask what you mean.”

“Why not me?

Emrys lifted an eyebrow. “Would you?”

The anger was easier to grasp onto, and much easier to wield than getting bogged down in the softer, more vulnerable emotions lurking in their wait to trip her up. “Don’t answer my question with a question. You’re my grandfather, not my Keeper.”

He let go of a long breath, as if considering his answer before he gave it. “You are entrenched in this tangential world, one not quite human, not quite _elvhen_ , and very much Grey Warden. You are raising _Asha’belannar_ ’s grandson as your own son. You had a child with your human… bondmate.” The last word gave Emrys trouble in getting out. “Those things have tied you to his world with binds I’m not sure can be broken, not without a great deal of pain. I don’t want to see you go through more pain. So I don’t ask you to join my clan, because it would only cause said pain. The clan wouldn’t accept a human, nor would they accept a half-breed infant. Perhaps they would accept _Asha’belannar_ ’s grandchild, but I am not even certain about that. They would accept you, gladly, but only you.”

Líadan knew the words he spoke were true, that she wouldn’t leave behind her family—her admittedly human family—to join her grandfather’s clan. Then her anger flared again as she remembered what Malcolm had told her about Feynriel. “But you offered to train that elf-blooded boy, Feynriel.”

“He is a unique case. He’s a Dreamer. There is literally no one else on Thedas who can teach him how to wield, control, and ultimately master his ability. To allow him to continue without proper training would be irresponsible, and to allow him to fall into Chantry or Tevinter hands would be catastrophic. It is not my choice to teach him; it is my responsibility.” He sighed and resumed his healing, eyes on his task. “Were it up to me, I would have chosen for you to have the Gift at the full power you deserve. If not that power, then no Gift at all, since what little magic you have has only caused you trouble. I do not know why Marethari persists in her wishes for you to become her First. You haven’t the ability, not for lack of trying.”

“I’ve told her that, repeatedly.” She was grateful for the shift to Marethari, as emotionally bare and raw as she felt. And yet, they kept drifting to such topics, despite the pain.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You’re a hunter, like your mother was, and Marethari needs to recognize and accept it.” He glanced over at her. “Don’t get your hopes up that she will, though she wastes a fine First like Merrill in allowing her to languish amongst the shemlen.”

Líadan wished they could save her friend, but they couldn’t save her until Merrill recognized she needed saving. It wouldn’t be anytime soon, though. Merrill was as stubborn as Marethari. “Is Keeper Marethari still refusing Oisín and the halla?”

“Yes. We’ve given up on insisting, and we won’t force anything on the Mahariel, as much as it pains me to see them go without even halla. Ghilan’nain can’t guide them without her creatures, yet the only Creator they seem to revere now is Mythal.” His voice hardened. “It is a very dangerous thing to do so. I will encourage members of the Mahariel who have a thought left of their own to leave and join another clan. If Marethari won’t save herself and her clan, they must save themselves.”

She said nothing, remembering what Cammen had said about trusting the Keeper.

Emrys didn’t keep the silence. “My clan will take Oisín and Ariane back to the Ra’asiel, provided we can track them. I also wanted to speak with Lanaya about the eluvians.”

“She’s supposed to be destroying them.”

His magic winked out again as he faced her. “Why?”

“So _Asha’belannar_ can’t follow Morrigan to _Setheneran_.”

“Merrill allowing Feynriel to touch the shard of eluvian she has in her possession has already provided a path. I am sure _Asha’belannar_ will find it, if she wishes. However, _Asha’belannar_ ’s child is in no danger, not from her.”

“Morrigan wasn’t so convinced.”

“Only because _Asha’belannar_ wished her not to be.” He smiled momentarily, and then straightened. “There. I’ve healed you with no ill effects. Were it not for your being a Grey Warden, you could have had another child or however many you wished. But as much magic as I have, I cannot heal even a Warden’s taint. I am sorry.”

Líadan looked over at her sleeping child, and thought of her very awake toddler elsewhere in the Amell estate, and was only sorry she wouldn’t be with them beyond thirty years. “It’s all right. Were I not a Warden, I couldn’t be with Malcolm. It wouldn’t be responsible.” She didn’t tell him about what Marethari had said about _Asha’belannar_ ’s role in Ava’s coming into being, because she didn’t want to know if Emrys would have agreed, had he known. Or if Emrys had discovered after his long conference with Marethari, and that had been why he’d ultimately saved Ava’s life.

Emrys studied her, yet in the end, he said nothing. 

He walked out the door, leaving Líadan to wonder if he’d refrained from speaking because what he had to say was too nice, or very much the opposite. Most likely, she’d never know for sure, like so many other things associated with her grandfather.

She slid out of the bed and stood up, relishing in the energy she hadn’t realized was missing until it returned. Her breasts had gone back to normal, and she no longer felt sore and exhausted. Every woman should have access to this, she thought. Among the Dalish, a healing to hasten the body’s natural process was offered a week after the babe was birthed. But among humans and city elves, healing was often waited out at the body’s slow pace of up to several weeks, she’d been told. Only a select few had access to court mages for assistance. A terrible waste of the Gift, locking up the mages in their Circles. 

As she passed by the cradle, Revas raised her large head from her paws and huffed at her. Líadan scratched her mabari’s head as she peeked in on her child. It still didn’t feel quite real, even though Ava was a living, breathing person—if incredibly small—bundled up in the cradle right in front of her. Revas had taken to sticking by the cradle, as if guarding her, having automatically accepted the babe as she had with Cáel. Some of the puffiness around Ava’s eyes had gone down, but it was still hard to tell which parent she took after. Cáel had been so incredibly obvious, and he still looked nothing like Morrigan. Nuala had told Líadan that Ava’s few scarce wisps of hair would likely soon fall out and be replaced by hair that would be a different color. And, eventually, the babe’s eye color would change, shifting to the dark blue of Malcolm’s or the green of Liadan’s, or somewhere in between.

She resisted touching Ava, to test if she was still real, because one thing that made a child _very_ real was a crying fit at being awakened. 

So, instead, she washed up in the tub behind the screen set up for it, dressed, and left Revas to watch the sleeping babe. Part of her wanted to take Ava with her—separation felt strange at this point, and Líadan was surprised at how much she didn’t want to be separated—but she didn’t want to wake her up, and she didn’t have a sling. With her elven hearing, along with Nuala’s, Líadan felt safe enough in leaving the room. If _Asha’belannar_ was going to take her child, there really would be nothing she could do to stop it. She was also starting to believe that _Asha’belannar_ would be more up front about taking a babe. She hoped, because she knew she could never do what Morrigan had ultimately chosen: to permanently leave her son to be raised by others. Líadan couldn’t imagine doing the same with either of her children. The difficulty she’d had with the weeks-long separation from Cáel had proven she couldn’t handle it.

After she went down the stairs, Bodahn smiled warmly at her and directed her toward the estate’s small dining room. “There’s a midday meal set up for you all, messere,” he said. “And congratulations on the babe. She’s wonderful.”

“Thank you.” 

Bodahn rushed off, leaving Líadan to find her way to the room, which she vaguely recalled from the other day. The wood along the walls had darkened with age, and the reflections of the sconces gave the halls a cozy feeling. The entire estate, though situated in Kirkwall, somehow felt Fereldan. Opulent, yes, but no more so than the palace in Denerim. The presence of Marian’s mabari also helped give the place a Fereldan bent. To Líadan, an aravel in a Dalish camp would always be her instinctive idea of home, but the Fereldan style—complete with a lounging mabari—was a very close second. Both, however, were superseded by Malcolm’s presence. As long as he was around, she felt rooted, even when everything around them was uprooted.

As she got closer to the dining room, the smell of freshly-baked bread and roasted meat took over the scents of weapon oil, mabari, and the lavender Lady Amell probably used to try to cover the first two. The scent of food got stronger, and Liadan’s stomach growled, reminding her that she had never eaten a morning meal.

Malcolm stood outside the dining room’s door, speaking with Marian. When he caught sight of Líadan over Marian’s shoulder, he grinned in the way that lit his entire face up and never failed to draw her smile in return. Marian turned and gave a little wave, and then her brow furrowed into her serious contemplation from before. Líadan gave Malcolm a questioning look.

“I asked her if she wanted to come back to Ferelden,” said Malcolm.

Marian sighed and leaned against the wall. “I’m sure my mother doesn’t. She’s an Amell. You know, Leandra Hawke, Lady Amell of the Kirkwall Amells. She fits in here, in the city where she was born. If that changes, then maybe I’d like to go back. Even with Bethany there, with both my brother and mother here…” Her wistful sigh told the real answer: she wanted to go back to Ferelden. “They out number her, and I think my mother’s personality alone counts for three people. I can’t leave. I really can’t.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Marian, even as he pulled Líadan close to him as she walked by. “Really? No mention of Sebastian at all?”

If his warmth and familiar scent hadn’t helped her feel better about leaving Ava asleep, alone except for Revas, Líadan might’ve kicked him for delaying her meal.

Marian knocked the back of her head against the wall. “You’re killing me. What did you and he talk about while I was gone?”

“I told him that griffons don’t deliver babies to doorsteps, and that if he intends on retaking Starkhaven, then he can’t have a chaste marriage.”

“Maker! You’re as bad as my mother! No, worse. She hasn’t actually spoken to him about… that. The reproducing thing. That I know of.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll die from embarrassment.”

Malcolm glanced at the closed door before looking at Marian again. “One thing has me curious, though. How have you not throttled him? How? He’s such a… a… righteous jackass prince.”

“I think it’s because I love him.” She laughed softly.  “It has to be that, right?”

Líadan knew exactly how Marian felt. “It’s the only way jackass princes manage to keep from getting strangled,” she said, and then elbowed Malcolm in the side. “You stopped me from getting food.”

He quickly let go of her. “Maker forbid.” Then he nudged her toward the door. “Go on, then, before you gnaw your arm off.”

Inside, Nuala had just put Cáel down from her lap, and he bolted for the door when Líadan opened it more than a crack. Líadan wasn’t sure if he bolted because it was open, or because he was excited to see her, but either way, she was astonished to see her son walking. “You _are_ walking!” She bent down to his level to catch him. While she wasn’t absolutely certain, a few of the syllables he babbled sounded suspiciously like the first syllable of Mamae. 

“What, did you think I’d lied?” Malcolm asked from behind her.

“Embellished, maybe.” She smiled as she snuggled the boy she’d missed, and who’d grown up so much while they’d been apart.

“I’ll be in the library if you need me,” Nuala said as she walked by Líadan and Malcolm. “I have a few things to say to your grandfather.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow at Kennard. He sighed. “I’ll follow and make sure she doesn’t goad the powerful mage into hitting her with a fireball or something.”

As she ate, shocked to find how ravenous she was, Líadan still felt strange about how she couldn’t truly come to grips with the reality that she had a daughter. It hadn’t settled in, so to speak, and the thought of Ava’s actual presence startled her whenever she thought of it, which was more often that she’d have assumed. Perhaps it was different for other mothers, the mothers who were able to feel their own infants. Maybe they bonded more with all that time together, due to how often infants, especially newborns, needed to eat. Maybe if she were able to feed her own child, she wouldn’t be so startled. She didn’t know, and she dearly wished, yet again, that she could ask her mother. Except wishing for her mother had nearly been her downfall in the Beyond, and she had to rid herself of that desperate urge.

“What’s wrong?” Malcolm asked quietly from next to her.

Líadan looked up from the remains of her meal to find that everyone else had departed the dining room for places elsewhere, leaving her and Malcolm alone. She shook her head, not sure how to express her concerns, and not wanting to bring up Malcolm’s own problems with his dead mother—both of them.

He raised an eyebrow, communicating how entirely unconvinced he was by her answer, but the door opened, admitting Isabela. Her presence effectively ended any deep subjects of conversation they would have had, judging by the satisfied, almost smarmy look in her eyes. Isabela was entirely capable of having serious conversations, as Líadan had discovered when she and Malcolm and the others had been passengers aboard the pirate’s ship for the first time, but when Isabela had _this_ look in her eyes, seriousness wasn’t anywhere near her thoughts.

Isabela insinuated herself behind and between them, and then draped an arm over each of their shoulders. “I have a surprise for the two of you,” she said.

“Not sure I like your surprises,” said Líadan. Though, to be fair, she didn’t like any surprises at all.

“I’m sure I don’t like your surprises,” said Malcolm.

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun lately, but you’ll like this one—I got a ship.”

“Did you steal it?” asked Líadan.

She squinted in thought. “No. Not exactly. Not unless taking possession of a ship from a dead slaver you just killed counts.”

Malcolm chuckled. “Only to Sebastian.”

“Bit preachy, isn’t he?” asked Isabela. “I keep waiting for him to give me a sermon. But he doesn’t! He claims preaching doesn’t work. And you know what he did tell me? He told me I’d grow weary of the strings of nameless lovers and the nights full of mindless pleasure. Can you even imagine? It’s the cruelest thing anyone has ever said to me. I nearly cried.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe Hawke hasn’t gotten into his Andraste-adorned pants yet.”

“Why would anyone do that?” asked Líadan. “It’s like putting a carving of Mythal’s face there, which no Dalish has done ever.”

“Please don’t be the first,” said Malcolm.

From the doorway, Marian said, “I’ve been _trying_ to get into his pants, believe me. He just—I don’t understand. It isn’t like he’s even said anything like, ‘No, no, we have to wait until we’re married, because we cannot have any illegitimate children,’ because Sebastian just wouldn’t say _bastard,_ oh no. No, he hasn’t even said that. Instead, it’s all about some vow he made to _Andraste_ , like he’d spoken to her personally.”

Isabela studied Marian for a moment before she said, “Hawke, you might be a little bitter.”

“I’m a lot bitter is what I am. Maybe I should sic my mother on him. She’d get him on course.”

“Judging from the scolding I heard you and Bethany getting from her, I’d say you’re better off tacking now,” said Malcolm.

“You’re using sailing metaphors!” Isabela clapped her hands together. “It’s going right to my nethers. Please, continue.”

“And, that little game is over. Well done, Isabela.” Marian settled into a chair across from them. “What my pirate friend didn’t explain, I suspect, is that last night while everyone else slept, we took advantage of the chaos that’s Kirkwall and took apart a slavery operation. Found the transport, freed his ‘cargo,’ killed the ship’s captain, and appropriated the ship for Isabela. For the ship’s inaugural journey, Isabela has volunteered to bring you back to Denerim, free of charge.”

“Not entirely,” said Isabela. “I demand a week at the Pearl, paid in full.”

“Done,” said Malcolm. “It would’ve been damned hard to vet a trustworthy captain to get back, anyway. Well worth the price of a week at the Pearl. If I can convince Alistair, maybe two.”

“I love Fereldans,” said Isabela. “So practical.”

“Anyway,” said Marian, “I figure you’ve got a few things to wrap up around here before you go, and Isabela has to find a crew, with Varric’s help. The trustworthy thing is hard to come by, but between the two of them, I think they’ll be able to find enough able-bodied, trustworthy sailors to man the ship, but it’ll take a few days.”

“That’s fine,” said Líadan. She wanted to speak with Marethari at least one more time to try to convince her to leave Sundermount. Maybe even try to convince her to convince Merrill to give up on rebuilding the eluvian. And this time, it would be a proper endeavor of convincing, instead of threatening and then going through with exile. “Besides, I wanted to see Bethany fulfill her bet and skip across the Gallows yard.” She didn’t feel up to sharing with the others what her plans involving Marethari were. Most likely, they would try to dissuade her from speaking with her old Keeper, tell her she’d be better off hitting her head against a wall, but she had to try, for Merrill’s sake.

Marian nodded. “Right! So, with that settled, I need to go with Merrill down to the Alienage. Isabela, I think she wanted you to go, too. She isn’t sure if her place is still standing, and if it is, if her eluvian shard is still there. You know how she feels about that thing.”

Líadan stood up. “I’ll go, too.” Malcolm lifted an eyebrow at her sudden volunteerism, but she waved him off. “I need to get outside. Walk a little. Something.”

“I suspect that ‘something’ has to do with talking with Merrill—again—about the piece of eluvian,” said Malcolm. 

“Hush, you.”

He shrugged. “I’ll stay here and find something to do. Or someone to annoy. Either way.”

Both Merrill and Sebastian waited outside the room, Merrill looking concerned and Sebastian rather serious. Then again, from what Líadan could remember, Sebastian always seemed to be serious. Considering the lighthearted sense of humor Marian seemed to have, to Líadan, the match between Marian and Sebastian appeared even more unlikely than the one between her and Malcolm. Then again, things tended to happen whether you tried to stop them or not, as it had been in her case. 

“I know I didn’t ask beforehand,” Sebastian said as he glanced between Malcolm and Líadan, “but I spoke with Grand Cleric Elthina about you—both of you. The subject came up when I’d asked her to pray with me over the health of your child, and it went from there. She would like to bless your bonding.”

Líadan wasn’t sure if a blessing from a Grand Cleric meant her bonding would be sanctioned and official according to the human Chantry, or if it was something else entirely. It was hard to tell most of the time when it came to the Chantry. She looked over at Malcolm. “I promised Alistair he could witness our Chantry ceremony if I ever agreed to one.”

“Just a blessing, not a Chantry marriage,” said Sebastian. “That way, if you ever ask for a dispensation, you’ll have an advantage.”

She crossed her arms. “What does this ‘blessing’ consist of?”

Sebastian’s eyes opened wider, as if he hadn’t expected that sort of question. “The Maker’s truth, Líadan, it is merely a conversation. She would like to meet you both, either way, and then ask the Maker and Andraste to watch over your union and your family. I give you my word that is all that will happen.”

“They’re very nice there,” said Merrill. “Well, except for Mother Petrice, but Hawke killed her, so there’s that.”

“Merrill,” said Sebastian, who then sighed and turned to Malcolm and Líadan. “I assume you will need time to think about it?”

Of course they did, because after the confrontation with this city’s Knight-Commander, Líadan wasn’t terribly keen on going anywhere near strongholds of the Chantry when she wasn’t yet at full strength. On her part, Líadan just stared at Sebastian for him needing to even ask that question after such a proposal was put before them.

“Yes,” Merrill said to Líadan. “Sometimes, I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, either.”


	73. Chapter 73

“That is why I traveled from Val Dorma to the Dales with nothing but rags on my back. That is why there were one hundred and five of us when we set out, all elven. That is why I fell to my knees and wept when we crossed through the gates of my new home, a village for my people.” ****

—from _An Anonymous Account of the Long Walk,_ as told to Brother Pekor of Ferelden, circa -140 Ancient

**Líadan**

****Clad once again in her modified Warden armor and cloak—mindful of Knight-Commander Meredith’s dire warnings from before—Líadan followed Merrill, Marian, and Isabela into the Kirkwall afternoon. The two mabari had accompanied them, running ahead and gamboling around each other, happy to have found a fellow Fereldan dog. It made Líadan fondly remember Gunnar, though Marian’s dog Jago was the opposite of Gunnar’s low-key personality.

“You know,” Merrill said as they descended the stairs to Lowtown, “Malcolm is very tall. Not as tall as Anders, but Varric says Anders is so tall he might as well be an ogre. How do you even kiss?”

“Simple. I don’t kiss Anders,” said Líadan. Her friend’s penchant for interesting, yet puzzling observations hadn’t disappeared during her exile, that was certain.

“I meant your bondmate.”

“Oh! Well, I make I running leap for him every time.”

“I would pay to see that,” said Isabela. 

“You’d pay to see a lot of things, I imagine,” said Líadan.

“ _Lethallan_!” said Merrill.

She laughed. “He bends over. He’s not a giant.”

“I’m almost disappointed,” said Isabela. “Then in my mind I saw him bend over. Disappointment gone.”

When they arrived at the Alienage, Merrill’s home, much like many left unoccupied in Lowtown during the Qunari assault, had been ransacked. Books and papers had been scattered everywhere, dirt and blood left in trails on the floor, baubles tossed about and broken, and none of it really seemed to bother Merrill. She found a halla figurine that Líadan recognized as Master Ilen’s work, but its horns had been snapped off. The discovery sent Merrill a little out of sorts, but she was so intent on finding her shard of eluvian that the singular urgency of her task kept her on a surprisingly even keel.

“It’s here somewhere,” she said as she searched under the bed. “No one would just take what looks to most people like a shard of glass. It’s already broken, so who would want it? It must have been swept under something. I’d know if it were gone.”

Líadan agreed with her, but she said nothing. It had to be somewhere in the room; she could feel its unique taint along her skin. However, she didn’t want to encourage Merrill, so she said nothing, even though Merrill seemed to be able to keep her hope up all on her own. Even then, it didn’t stop Líadan from feeling guilty at what really seemed like active deception since she _knew_ the shard was still there. She remained silent, suffering the guilt. She would not see another of her clanmates harmed by this eluvian. To alleviate the guilt, she started picking up Merrill’s belongings, putting books away on the wooden shelves, righting her table, then the chairs. As she went about with fixing things up, she noticed that there wasn’t anything for Merrill to eat. She frowned.

“Merrill, where’s your food?” She hadn’t come across any grains or root vegetables or anything.

Merrill looked up from where she’d been searching under a pile of rags. “Oh, they must have taken it.”

Líadan’s frown grew deeper, knowing her clanmate most likely didn’t have a lot of coin, given the conditions she lived in. “Will you be able to get more?”

“I’ll make sure she eats,” said Marian. “And if not me, Varric will. I promise, your clanmate won’t starve so long as she’s got us.”

Standing behind Merrill, Isabela made eye contact with Líadan and nodded. If Isabela believed Marian a woman of her word, then Líadan could, too. Isabela put a gentle hand on Merrill’s shoulder. “I’ll keep helping you look, kitten,” said Isabela. “We can straighten up at the same time. I think Líadan has to get back to her new kid, because she keeps glancing up toward Hightown, and I suspect she doesn’t know Kirkwall well enough to get back without a guide.”

Líadan blinked. She hadn’t even _known_ she’d been doing that, yet she had, and Isabela had noticed it.

“I don’t even know Kirkwall well enough to get around without a guide,” said Merrill. Then she looked up at Líadan. “Please make sure you say goodbye before you leave for Ferelden. I couldn’t bear to find you gone without even that.”

“Of course I will.” After the terrible farewell she’d had last time she’d left Merrill—technically the last time they’d both been members of the Mahariel clan together—there was no way on Thedas Líadan would leave Kirkwall without a real farewell.

At first, the walk back to Hightown was silent. Líadan mired in thought over Merrill, Marethari, Emrys, and the eluvian, and once she really let herself think about the problems they presented and only that, she couldn’t think about anything else. As a result, she found herself asking Marian, “If I need to go out to Sundermount and back fairly quickly, who do I talk to?”

“Well, there’s me. I’m pretty good at going out and back in an afternoon or a morning. There’s also any number of Varric’s shady types, but I can’t promise they’d be honest guides. None of _them_ have mothers who’d shout them into oblivion if they let one of Ferelden’s royal family come to harm.”

“I’m not part of the royal family.” Líadan figured it was an easy mistake to make, considering her relationship to Malcolm, but she wasn’t a Theirin, nor was she any sort of noble in the human system of nobility. 

Marian halted suddenly to stare at her, the people behind them cursing as they went around to continue up the stairs. “Did you miss the part where you’re technically married to King Alistair’s younger brother?”

Líadan shook her head, and started back up the steps. They wouldn’t walk themselves, there were a lot of them, and she had a long day ahead of her. “That doesn’t make me part of the royal family.”

“All right, we can chat about this on our way to Sundermount, since this is obviously a long conversation we’re about to have.” Marian didn’t sound annoyed. In fact, she sounded amused, and if Líadan wasn’t mistaken, Marian seemed to be looking forward to their trip to Sundermount. She hummed to herself occasionally, brow furrowed as she planned.

Something about that didn’t seem right. Maybe the Arishok had hit her on the head and only now was her injury starting to show.

When they found a qunari warrior standing just outside the Amell estate’s door, Líadan was taken aback, considering where her thoughts had just been. Maybe he was there to finish the job the Arishok hadn’t. On her part, Marian didn’t react at all. The possibility that she hadn’t noticed because she was so deep in thought occurred to Líadan, so she said quietly, “Marian, there’s a qunari standing on your doorstep.”

“I know. Shh. I think if we hold still and be very quiet, he’ll get bored and wander off.”

“I can hear you, _basra_ ,” said the qunari. “I cannot leave.”

Marian straightened and returned to her normal tone of voice. “Well. Wait, you’re not… you’re not looking for another artifact, are you?”

“No.”

“Direct question,” said Líadan. When Marian shot her an inquiring look, she felt compelled to explain. “We have a qunari Warden in Ferelden. You learn how to work with them.”

Marian snapped her fingers. “Right! So… why can’t you leave?” she asked the qunari. 

“I must fulfill my duty to the Qun.”

“Which is?”

Líadan nudged her.

“I mean, what is your duty to the Qun?”

“I must collect every weapon from my fallen brethren. Only then can I return to Par Vollen.”

“So, you’ll be on my doorstep for a while?” Marian sounded remarkably cheerful at the prospect, which wasn’t an emotion Líadan associated with the qunari.

“Yes.”

“What’s your name? Better I know you by name if you’ll be here for a while.”

“Taarbas.”

The door opened and Malcolm stuck his head out, apparently having heard the last part of the conversation. “So your name must mean ‘the poor sap who can’t go home until he finds all the weapons.’ I’m sorry. Also,” he said to Líadan as Cáel shoved past him and into Liadan’s legs, “your son wants to see you, because I am apparently not as awesome as you are. Personally,” he said to Marian as Líadan picked up Cáel, “I think it’s the breasts. Way better for snuggling than cuddling up to a hard male chest. In my opinion, anyway.”

“I changed my mind,” said Marian. “I think he and Sebastian need to hang out more.”

“I don’t think you really do,” said Líadan. Cáel, apparently content with his hug, squirmed desperately to get out of her arms. She set him down once they were inside the estate, and the door closed behind them on Taarbas outside. Malcolm got one brief wave in before he was literally chasing after Cáel, who had chased the two mabari down the hall. 

Though it foretold of the serious mischief to come in Cael’s future, Liadan’s outlook brightened at seeing him doing so well. His behavior lent a sense of normalcy to their situation. Cáel chasing after mabari was no different than when Dalish children chased after deerhounds and halla both. They eventually caught up to them in the kitchen, where Jago, Marian’s mabari, had taken up with begging the cook for scraps, and Revas was slobbering on a giggling Cáel in the middle of everything.

When Leandra entered the noisy room, she beamed at the sight instead of becoming irritated. “This is what I like to see,” she said, most of her pointed look directed at Marian. “The Amell estate finally hearing laughs from children again. Now, if they were Amell children—”

“I get the point, Mother,” said Marian. “Take it up with Sebastian. I’ll be at Sundermount for the afternoon.”

Líadan mouthed ‘Marethari’ to Malcolm, and he nodded. They’d discussed her need to speak with her former Keeper, and he’d already been in agreement with any opportunity she got to go there when Ava wouldn’t have to be brought along. They didn’t want Ava anywhere near Sundermount or its valley, possibly forever.

After Líadan had let Nuala know where she would be and held Ava one more time just in case anything happened while they were out, Ariane volunteered to join them for the trip out and back. She wanted to see Oisín, who was valiantly still trying to work with the Mahariel. Both mabari went with them, and once they were out of the estate, Marian insisted on stopping by the Hanged Man to pick up Varric. 

“He fills the time,” she said in explanation. “He has stories on stories, and they’re great for when nothing’s happening on the Wounded Coast, and we end up bored as we walk along the cliffs. Well, Merrill’s also good at the the chatting thing, but she’s busy right now, so Varric it is.”

“So, it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re traveling with two Dalish elves?” asked Ariane.

Marian turned to look at her, her eyes wide. “Really? I’m traveling with two Dalish elves? No! I never would have guessed!” Then her expression returned to normal, which nearly always verged on amusement. Marian Hawke, Líadan was slowly discovering, seemed perpetually amused. “Seriously, no, it doesn’t. I just like traveling with Varric. There’s only so many games of ‘guess what I’m looking at’ one can play on the Wounded Coast before they’d rather listen to one of Varric’s exceptionally good stories.”

Ariane accepted the answer, while Líadan had never suspected Marian of ulterior motives in the first place, and they continued on their way. Varric happily accompanied them, pausing in his room long enough only to grab his crossbow. 

With the urgency to get rid of the demon plaguing her now gone, Líadan was afforded the chance to appreciate the views along the Wounded Coast. The number of skeletal shipwrecks was somewhat disturbing, but the mountain islands protruding from otherwise calm waters was quite breathtaking. They traveled in quiet at the outset, aside from Marian catching up on Kirkwall gossip through Varric.

Then Marian said, pitched louder for the others to hear, “Varric, Líadan thinks she isn’t part of Ferelden’s royal family.”

Líadan cursed under her breath. She’d hoped Marian had forgotten.

The dwarf started laughing, clearly assuming it was a joke, up until Líadan glared at him.

“I’m not,” she said.

His amusement immediately went away, and he blinked at her as her seriousness registered. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I’m a Dalish elf, remember? Elves are never part of royal families, and definitely not Dalish elves. We’re almost like mythical creatures of the forest to most humans, sometimes even to some city elves.”

“Huh.” Varric rubbed at his chin, as if truly weighing what he’d say. “The Dalish don’t have any sort of royalty, do they?”

“No. Keepers are the closest thing, I suppose. But their heirs aren’t always directly from their bloodline. In recent history, they usually aren’t. Some clans have even had to have Firsts given to them from other clans, because they haven’t anyone with the Gift aside from the Keeper. That’s how Merrill ended up with the Mahariel.”

“My original clan was one of the luckier ones—we had three with the Gift amongst us,” Ariane said in a somber tone she rarely used. “Our Keeper, her First, and the First had a sister with the Gift, as well. But Keeper Ilshae died soon after the Blight, our First was exiled then died after joining the Grey Wardens, and her sister Seranni was killed by the darkspawn. Seranni had a daughter who may have shown signs of the Gift, but she was young, and ended up also dying due to the darkspawn. So where my birth clan had plenty to train to possibly become a Keeper, they ended up without any at all, and were forced to join another clan.” The sadness in Ariane’s voice was unmistakable, and despite what Líadan had been through herself, she couldn’t imagine losing a clan that presumably stable, and being in the remnants of the clan needing to find a new one.

At least those remaining in the Calliel had been aware enough to find another clan. Though their Keeper and her heirs had been dead, they’d led themselves to another Keeper. If only the Mahariel could recognize their own Keeper’s highly divided and questionable interests, and take care of themselves. But it wasn’t what the Dalish were taught. They were taught, from as early as they could remember, that their Keepers were their guides as much as the halla were for the People. Keepers were almost unquestionably trusted, and Dalish history had almost no incidents of Keepers breaking that trust—and certainly not breaking it to the extent that Marethari was. So the Mahariel remained, believing in what had been ingrained in them, that their Keeper had their best interests at heart, even when everything else indicated otherwise.

After a moment had passed, Varric resumed his initial line of questioning. “What if a Keeper’s child was a mage? Wouldn’t they become the Keeper’s heir?”

Líadan shrugged. “If they’re the only other person in the clan with the Gift, and it’s a strong enough power, then probably. But if there’s more than one child in the clan showing the Gift, it goes to whoever proves best at it through training. Preference isn’t automatically given to the Keeper’s child.”

“So there’s not any nobility in the Dalish? No one given preferential treatment aside from Keepers themselves?”

“Firsts, usually,” said Líadan. “Mostly because they’ll eventually become Keepers.”

“I think, to a certain extent,” said Ariane, “that maybe those related to the oldest and most respected Keepers are sort of a nobility. Maybe.”

“Oh!” said Marian. “You mean like how Keeper Emrys is _apparently_ the oldest Keeper ever, and just so happens to be Líadan’s grandfather?”

“No,” said Líadan.

At the same time, Ariane said, “Yes, exactly.”

Líadan’s dark look at her friend left Ariane entirely unaffected. 

“What? It’s true. And it doesn’t help that you’re the Dalish elf who happens to also be a Hero of the Fifth Blight. You fought an Archdemon, plus you’re Keeper Emrys’ granddaughter. If the Dalish have nobility other than Keepers and Firsts, you’d be it. Among some clans, anyway. The Suriel don’t count.”

“But I’m just me,” said Líadan.

“Said every reasonable noble ever,” said Varric.

Líadan scowled. “I still don’t see how this makes me part of Ferelden’s royal family. From what I know about royal families, that’s the monarch and their immediate family. The fellow king or queen, and whatever children they may or may not have.”

“Maybe in countries with possible heirs coming out their ears, like Nevarra, but not Ferelden,” said Varric. “With Fereldan’s royal family being so short of _people_ —not to mention heirs—they’re inclusive of anyone they can get. Especially if said person happens to be the mother of a recently-born princess.”

Líadan raised a surprised eyebrow at him. “You mean Anora gave birth? Good thing Wynne is there or the child never would have made it.” Though Líadan made the remark in jest, because she refused to believed her own daughter was a human princess, she did feel a measure of relief that if it _was_ true, Wynne’s presence would most likely be able to save the child.

“No. Well, not that I know of. Maker, I swear you and Daisy are deliberately obtuse, because I know neither one of you are stupid. No. I meant you, and I meant your daughter. You know, the one whose father happens to be a prince? Means she’s a princess, like her older brother is a prince. Since you gave birth to her, Princess, that makes you part of the royal family.”

Marian snorted with laughter. “Oh, he calls Merrill ‘Daisy,’ and now he’s named you Princess. Princess! This is fantastic.”

Líadan chose to ignore the other woman. This was about making it absolutely clear that she was not something the others believed she was, simply because they believed it. “It makes Ava part of it, but not me.”

“Andraste’s smoky britches, this makes me wish Choir Boy were here so he could explain. All right. Let me try another way. Look, how are you treated when you’re in Denerim? In the marketplace, for example? Are you treated like any other elf?”

She wanted to say yes, she was, but she would be lying. Sometimes, she was, but most of the time, she was recognized, due to the combination of her _vallaslin_ and Grey Warden heraldry on her armor or clothing. When she was recognized, she was treated with deference, at the very least. “No, I’m not.”

“And you’ve attended a Landsmeet or two?”

“Unfortunately.” If she could never attend another, she would thank the Creators every day. Sadly, she knew there would be more Landsmeets in her future, such as the one at Wintersend when Anora and Alistair would be speaking with the nobility about her having bonded with Malcolm.

“How were you treated there?”

“Fairly.” Which she believed was what gave her some honest hope for the outcome of the Wintersend Landsmeet.

Varric let out a small sigh at her short answers. “And when you talk to the King or his wife, do they let down their guard? I’m talking more the Queen than the King, here. One is rumored to be far more gregarious than the other.”

“Yes.”

“So—”

“But that can all be attributed to my being a Hero of the Fifth Blight, as Ariane pointed out.” She would much rather admit to the ‘hero’ bit than even fathom being a member of a human royal family. Some things were just too much.

“Maker’s breath,” said Varric. “No wonder the Dalish have stuck it out all this time if you’re all this stubborn.”

“Not all,” said Ariane. “Líadan is… special. You’ve met her grandfather. It runs in their line.”

“You’re supposed to be on _my_ side,” Líadan said to her. She was ignored.

Varric’s brow furrowed. “So, is Daisy related to them?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Líadan. “Merrill’s from the same clan, but was born in another, and I don’t think we share blood, if that’s what you’re asking.” She glared at Ariane. “And you aren’t much less stubborn than I am.”

“I called it right the first time. Thought so,” said Varric. “For Maker’s sake, you refer to the Queen of Ferelden by her given name, and her given name only, to her face, and _Queen Anora of Ferelden_ is perfectly okay with it. If that doesn’t shout to the rafters that you’re a member of the family, I don’t know what else would.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even noticed that,” said Marian. “Nice pick up, Varric.”

He grinned. “It’s what I’m best at, Hawke.”

Liadan muttered invectives under her breath and ignored them for the rest of the walk.

The Mahariel camp was much as they left it, to Líadan’s disappointment. It was still very entrenched in Sundermount’s shadow, and showed no signs of preparation to leave. Junar’s patrol greeted them as they got close, and instead of escorting them in, just waved in the vague direction of the cluster of aravels that marked the center of the camp. Fenarel, Líadan knew, would have escorted them had it been his patrol. Cammen, had it been his, would have accompanied them in order to chat the whole way. Since she didn’t want to deal with Fenarel, not with her emotions as ragged as they were, nor was she inclined to be as receptive to Cammen’s chatting, she was grateful it had been quiet, easygoing Junar. 

After they entered the camp proper, Marian peeled off to go speak with Master Ilen and barter for some of his crafts, and Líadan was shocked to hear exactly how truly excited Varric sounded at being able to go visit with _Hahren_ Paivel. Her surprise must have shown, because he grinned at her. 

“What? I love his stories,” he said. “And I like to think that he likes mine. Storytellers like to swap stories, even when one guy just knows Dalish stories that might be true, and the other guy just makes shit up as he goes along. Just grab me when it’s time to leave.”

Ariane left her side to track down Oisín, and with the dogs both having gone to watch the clan’s children play, it left Líadan alone to find Marethari. It didn’t take much, since the Keeper was outside her aravel, looking as if she’d been expecting her. Líadan’s memory gave her the image of another Keeper awaiting her arrival, of when Lanaya had been waiting for Líadan to come speak with her, after having discovered that she was with child by a human. And now she had another Keeper waiting for her, the same Keeper who had played a large part in why she had now had an elf-blooded, human child. 

 _Her_ child. It still didn’t feel real.

And she still didn’t think she could trust Marethari, not like she had even a few days ago, and certainly not like she had when she’d been a member of the Mahariel clan. However, this had nothing to do with that. What was important was trying, yet again, to convince Keeper Marethari to save herself, to save the clan, and to save Merrill. So when Marethari welcomed Líadan into her aravel, she went gladly, and when Marethari offered her tea, she drank it willingly, though the wariness burned at her throat more than any fear she had of broaching the subject of Merrill once more. One could not know the full plans of _Asha’belannar_ , and whatever else the not-so-mythical woman had planned for her. 

“You are looking well,” said Marethari. “I see that Emrys has healed you.”

“I’m not here to talk about that,” said Líadan. Anything having to do with her reproductive _anything_ wasn’t something she ever wanted to speak about with Marethari ever again. She set her mug of tea down on the table and cupped her hands around it before she briefly gritted her teeth and jumped into what she had to say. “Creators know, we’ve rarely seen eye to eye, but that doesn’t stop me from caring for the welfare of both you and the clan. I’m asking you, please, take the clan from here, before it’s too late. Before something terrible happens. You’re on the slopes of Sundermount—that no calamity has yet happened is only a sign of tempting fate.”

“If you were to return, I would consider moving the clan.” Marethari looked directly at Líadan when she said it, which was more than a little unnerving. The Keeper was serious, as she had always been on this issue. “With your presence once again with the clan, I believe Merrill might be convinced to return.”

“I can’t. You know that.” Líadan was also slowly recognizing how this insistence of Marethari’s on her coming back to the clan wasn’t about her, personally. In some strange way, it was about Merrill.

“I, and the clan, would permit your return, even with your children if you so desire, were you to agree to become my First.”

“Not Merrill?” She’d thought, for the briefest of moments, that Marethari had given up on her becoming a First—especially if Merrill returned. Instead, Marethari sounded even more preposterous in her hopes, because Líadan had never heard of any First who had human children.

The Keeper slowly shook her head. “I do not think the clan would trust her, not for a long time. After I pass to the Beyond and you take my place, you could take Merrill as your own First, if you wished. Your tenure would be short, due to being a Grey Warden, but by then Merrill will have regained the clan’s trust.”

Líadan stared at her as she tried to reconcile how lucid Marethari seemed, yet how absolutely absurd—yet somehow logical—the plan sounded. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I did not come up with it on a whim, _da’len_. However, I will not move the clan until Merrill has returned to us, no matter how it is accomplished.”

“So go to the Alienage and drag her back! Waiting will get none of you anywhere but dead, in the end.”

“She must return of her own accord. It must be her choice. As her Keeper, I will wait until she has chosen.”

Then Líadan recognized just how strong the connection was between Keeper Marethari and Merrill. She wasn’t a Keeper trying to bring one of the clan back into the fold; she was a mother waiting for her child to come home. Whatever else might have fueled Marethari’s decision to stay, from dying halla to _Asha’belannar_ , the real reason was Merrill. Keeper Marethari would not leave until she saw her daughter safe, blood kin or not. The Keeper’s roots had grown deep there, and would not be shaken through any outside force. Not only would leaving have to be Merrill’s choice, but Marethari would have to choose, as well. Knowing what Líadan did of herself and her own adopted child, her choice would be to stay until he chose to come home. There would be no changing Marethari’s mind, just as there would be no changing her own mind if she were in this situation.

She sighed and stood up. “I had to try.”

Marethari’s smile was genuine. “I know. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, _da’len_.”

Once Líadan had exited the aravel, her frustration with her fellow Dalish quickly returned. She searched for Marian, ready to leave the vicinity of Sundermount and never return for the foreseeable future. Marian was easily located, sitting as she listened to Varric and Paivel trade stories. 

“How did it go?” Marian asked brightly. 

Líadan scowled, yet kept herself from glaring over her shoulder at the Keeper’s aravel. 

Marian laughed. “That well?” 

She was happy to put the Dalish camp behind her for the time being, though saddened by her farewell with Ariane. As a way of keeping up spirits on their way back, Varric resumed his stories. Líadan spent too much time in thought as she attempted to figure out ways to convince Marethari and Merrill to change their paths, but everything she thought of, she knew would get quickly shot down. As they approached Kirkwall, she noticed a crow out of the corner of her eye. She blinked and paid more attention to the trail ahead of them, and then spun and looked behind them, at the trail leading to the sun setting on the horizon. More crows had found perches beside the trail, on tree branches or rocks, on driftwood and ruins, and some even soared above them. Was it _Asha’belannar_ disguising an approach?

“Holy shit,” said Varric. “That’s a lot of crows, and we aren’t even in Antiva.”

“We need to get back to Kirkwall,” said Líadan. _Asha’belannar_ had a flair for the dramatic, and this many crows providing an escort all the way back to the city would certainly fall into that category. She could return to find Ava already gone, or she could return to see _Asha’belannar_ getting ready to leave, or—she started to run toward Kirkwall.

While the dogs easily kept up, the others took a few moments to catch on. “No killing anything without me!” Marian shouted after her. 

That was followed by Varric saying, “Hey, wait up, Princess! I’m too old for this shit!”

To that, Líadan made a rude gesture over her shoulder, but did not slow down.

Varric laughed.

Damn it all, as infuriating as he was, especially with his sodding _nicknames_ , she still liked him. She could definitely see why Marian kept him in her close circle of friends.

They were all out of breath by the time they got to the Amell estate, even with the haste and rejuvenation Marian had grudgingly cast on all of them as they ran. Líadan opened the door herself, not bothering to politely wait for Marian to do it, where she ran straight into a bewildered Malcolm. Part of her was briefly annoyed that he wasn’t bowled over even though she’d been running at full speed, while the other part of her was desperate to tell him about the danger.

He took her by the shoulders as he recovered his balance. “What’s—”

“There were crows on the way back from—”

He was bolting up the stairs before she finished her sentence. They burst through the doorway, Marian, Varric, and both mabari right behind them.

A startled Nuala jumped in the air, the changing cloths she’d been folding fluttering everywhere before they landed on the floor. “Andraste’s burned bones! What is _wrong_ with you people?”

“And here I was hoping you’d know,” said Marian. “Nurses for royal families are supposed to be privy to these things.”

“I’m not part of the royal family,” Líadan grumbled at her as she went over to the cradle.

There Ava slept, perfectly safe, with no signs of _Asha’belannar_.

“Someone had better tell me what this is all about,” said Nuala. “You lot are lucky enough that newborns can sleep through pretty much anything.”

“We thought that Flemeth was going to—”

“ _Asha’belannar_ was—”

“You thought a woman of mythical strength and renown was going to steal your baby and that you had the ability to what? Stop her? Honestly?”

“When you put it that way, I suppose it sounds absurd,” said Malcolm.

“Says you,” said Líadan.

“Wait,” said Varric. “Wait, wait. Are we talking about the same Flemeth that Marian freed up on Sundermount, and after being freed, shapeshifted into a dragon and flew away? Same Flemeth?”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes. Same woman. God, maybe? I don’t know. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that she’s around and possibly plotting something. I mean, she’s technically Cáel’s grandmother, since Flemeth was Morrigan’s mother.”

Varric stared at him. “Are you for real? I thought that was a rumor, like most of the things I’ve heard about the Blight and afterward. Are you standing here telling me that wasn’t something some bard or storyteller completely made up? Because I’ve slung less bullshit in my own stories.”

“Totally true.”

“Hawke, you introduce me to the best people! We need to sit down and talk about the Blight before you leave, Princeling. You too, Princess. I need to know what the Maker’s truth is.”

“Stop calling me that, dwarf, or I’ll shove that crossbow of yours somewhere you wouldn’t like.”

Varric chuckled. “Bianca wouldn’t care, and I’ve gotten better threats from the Merchant’s Guild. Try again, Princess.”

“All right,” said Malcolm. “Varric, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about the Blight, if you tell me why you’re calling her ‘Princess.’”

“You mean besides the fact that it annoys her? Probably because she’s married to a prince. I know in Ferelden and in the Free Marches, that makes one a princess. Consort, sure, but still a princess.”

Malcolm laughed. For that, Líadan glared at him as the others shuffled out of the room, and kept glaring at him through the evening meal. She only let up once they were sharing drinks with Varric and Marian in her library, while Malcolm told various stories from the Blight, confirming or denying various tales they’d heard. While she found the early stories fascinating—Malcolm hadn’t spoken very much about the early days of the Blight, when she hadn’t yet been made a Grey Warden—she’d had a long day, and a few longer ones before, and couldn’t seem to keep up as well as Marian and Varric. So, she excused herself, insisted Malcolm stay to finish his stories, and stumbled up the stairs.

“So I realized,” Nuala said as soon as Líadan entered the room, “that you probably feel like you’re missing out on bonding time with your new daughter because you can’t feed her.” Which, Líadan noticed, Nuala had just finished doing, though Ava seemed to be somewhat awake still. However, her eyes were drifting shut, and Nuala quickly put Líadan into a chair, and then settled the babe in the crook of one of Líadan’s arms.

Líadan had to admit, holding her daughter and watching her fall asleep was a nice feeling, even with her confusion about what Nuala was going on about.

Nuala smiled softly at Líadan’s questioning look. “Just because you can’t feed her doesn’t mean you can’t keep her as close to you as much as you want.” Then she handed Líadan one of the Dalish slings like Nuala had used early on with Cáel. “I had Ariane bring me one earlier. I think she got it from one of the little old ladies of your clan. Elders, I think you call them, but in the Alienage, they’re little old ladies. From Ariane’s description, I think they’re the same type. They love babies, and they love making cute things for babies.”

“That’s… exactly how they are, actually.” Líadan rubbed her thumb over the soft material, not remembering what it was the older craftswomen and men of the clan used to make slings. She knew it was softer than wool, almost as soft as halla fur. What she hadn’t expected was for anyone to notice how disconcerted she felt over not being able to feed her daughter, and for anyone to give her one of the traditional slings, since they were given for births of Dalish children, not human. But Ariane was of the Ra’asiel clan, who had admittedly different views of such matters. 

“Oh! One more thing,” said Nuala, who then hunted around in a basket nearby before coming up with a tiny cloth stuffed—spider? It looked like one. Líadan peered more closely at it. The halla fur on the legs to make them fuzzy were a nice touch, she had to admit. “Ariane said that someone gave it to her to give to you. Cammen, I think? He said you’d know why he’d give your newborn daughter a stuffed spider.”

Líadan shook with laughter, desperately trying to keep it from barreling out and waking Ava. 

“You realize you have to tell me the story now, right?” asked Nuala.

In fits and starts, once she mostly regained her ability to speak, she told her daughter’s nurse about the spider, and basically how she and Malcolm had ended up revealing to the Mahariel the true nature of their relationship. By the time she got to the part about Sten pulling Líadan away from Fenarel before she beat him, Nuala was laughing, as well. “Put it on Malcolm’s side of the bed, before he comes in,” she said.

“You’re brilliant,” said Líadan. “Don’t let Shianni or Rhian tell you otherwise.”

“If you want, I’ll take her with me tonight so you can get a night of solid sleep. I think you need it, honestly. Even though your grandfather healed you, there are some things that the body can only fix with many consecutive hours of restful sleep. I’ll bring Revas, if that’s all right, and Kennard will be there, and between the three of us and Cáel, if Flemeth shows up to kidnap anyone, we should be able to raise a large enough ruckus to make her think it isn’t worth the effort.”

The prospect of not being awakened by a crying babe seemed a nice one. “All right.”

Nuala gently took Ava, still entirely out, from Líadan, and started for the door. Revas followed close at her heels. 

“How did you know?” Líadan asked as Nuala’s hand touched the doorknob.

“Because I’ve been a new mother.” Nuala looked back at her with eyes filled with understanding, and just a hint of pain at the loss of her own daughter a year ago. “And I know exactly how much time I spent feeding my own daughter, and how overwhelming an idea it was that I had one, even though I had all that time to stare at her and wonder how she was real. I’m betting you’ve been wondering the same thing, and you haven’t had nearly enough time to spend staring at her to help make it sink in. I thought you should have that opportunity, and some other people agreed with me. Now, get some sleep, so you can wrangle your own kid some more tomorrow. The toddler, too.”

After Nuala left with Ava, Líadan put the sling on top of the chest of drawers. Then she did exactly as Nuala had suggested, and put the stuffed spider on Malcolm’s side of the bed. His reaction to it would be even better if he ended up tipsy from the drinks Marian and Varric kept giving him. On closer inspection of the toy, Líadan was impressed at the workmanship. Halla fur used for making the legs fuzzy, eight hand-stitched eyes, more halla fur for the fangs, accents made with thread to give the body some depth. All this time, and now they find out that Cammen was good at toy-making.

It was Malcolm’s yelp that woke her from her sleep, with the stuffed spider promptly thrown across the room.

“That was your daughter’s toy,” Líadan told him between laughs.

“That wasn’t a toy. It was a menace,” he replied. Even still, he fetched it from where it’d landed, and put it on top of the sling before returning to the bed. “Who on Thedas gives an infant a toy spider? Who gives _anyone_ a toy spider?”

“Cammen. He made it himself, you know.”

“I hope he didn’t use any real spider parts.”

“He knows how to properly cure them.”

He sat up and stared at her in the near-darkness. “You’re kidding, right?”

She wanted to keep a straight face so the farce would go longer, but she couldn’t squelch the giggles. 

He heaved a sigh and fell back onto the bed. “Fine. Just for that, I’ll quiz you about your little trip to Sundermount. I was going to wait until morning so you could fall right back asleep, but you decided playing pranks was a better idea. Now, judging from your silence on the matter, I take it Keeper Marethari was once more entirely unmoved by common sense?”

Líadan growled, her amusement fleeing in the sight of the frustrations of her birth clan. “You wouldn’t believe the compromise she offered. I said no. So they’re stupidly staying on Sundermount, and Merrill is just as stupidly staying in Kirkwall, and Creators take them both.”

“So, this would be a bad time to bring up Sebastian’s offer?”

She’d forgotten about that. Considering how infuriating the Dalish had been earlier, she was willing to meet with this human of the Chantry. At this point, Líadan didn’t think the Grand Cleric could be as obstinate as Marethari or Merrill. As long as Sebastian had told the truth—and he didn’t appear to be much of a liar—it would just be talking. She also had to acknowledge that Ava was human, and like Hildur had said, Ava needed to be involved in the Chantry, at least nominally. Líadan had also promised Alistair he’d be able to witness some sort of human Chantry ceremony, and this woman was in a position to help that happen, in a way. Plus, Líadan had made a promise to her brother-in-law, and she did not break her promises. 

Out loud, she sighed. “Fine, let’s go up there with him tomorrow.”

There was a long pause before Malcolm asked, “Really?”

She rolled her eyes. He’d said that like she wasn’t capable of rational thought. “Really. I made a promise, and we both know how hurt Alistair was that he couldn’t be at our bonding. It will help with the Landsmeet, too, I suspect.”

“I was going to use those arguments.” Malcolm sounded almost disappointed.

“I can pretend to let you convince me.”

The disappointment disappeared. “If we’re going to pretend—”

She held up her hands. “No, no, absolutely not. Don’t even think of going there, even with a comment.”

“Not even a comment? Because I wasn’t expecting any—”

“Not even a comment.”

There was another pause. Then he asked, “Why?”

“I had tea when I visited Keeper Marethari.”

“Oh.” He glanced around, and then started shuffling off the bed. “Just to be safe, maybe I should sleep on the floor. You know, in case some inadvertent contact of any kind could trigger something.”

She grabbed his wrist before he left the bed entirely. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not of a mind to tempt fate, that’s all.”

“That’s more Flemeth’s thing, I’ve noticed.” He stayed in the bed, and they slept soundly for the first time in longer than they could remember.

In the morning, they went with Sebastian and Marian to visit the Grand Cleric at the Kirkwall Chantry. They left right after Nuala fed Ava, which gave them around two hours before she’d need to eat again—she tended to let them know by fussing for about a second before bursting into full wails. That, Líadan had informed Malcolm, was from her Theirin side. 

The sheer size of the chantry that towered over all of Kirkwall rendered her speechless. As she stared up, and impossibly up, the opulence of the building astonished her. This had to be what the old Tevinter ruins and towers must have looked like in their prime, she thought, and wondered what this building would look like after ten Ages, when it would most likely be on its way to a ruin itself. Now, however, it was anything but, with bronze statues as tall as ten men or more standing on guard on either side of the stairs.

Behind her, entirely unaffected by the chantry building, Malcolm asked Sebastian if he was going to go to Ferelden to see his sister.

“I will have to think about it,” said Sebastian.

Malcolm let out a soft grunt that touched on the edge of derision. “Well, just so you know, the Chantry covered up her survival at first. They also refused her sanctuary.”

“I did ask Her Grace about it. She was never informed of my sister’s presence and her request. Mother Petrice had been the one to intercept the request and reject it. She never went to the Grand Cleric, even though she told Varric’s contact that she had.”

“You realize it wasn’t just Kirkwall’s chantry, right? That Meghan was refused sanctuary in Starkhaven and Denerim? There’s more to the story, but I think your sister needs to tell you. You know, when you go see her.”

“This is why I like him,” said Marian. “He’s direct. No subtlety at all.”

“At times, subtlety is required for a prince,” Sebastian said to Marian, though the rebuke of Malcolm was clear. “As for visiting my sister, I will deliberate on it in prayer. Kirkwall may have need of my services.”

Líadan could have sworn she heard Marian mutter something under her breath about _Marian Hawke_ needing Sebastian’s services. Despite the circumstances, it nearly made Líadan laugh.

As they continued up the stairs, the wind on the higher reaches picked up, snapping the Chantry banners. The larger banners sounded as loud as thunderclaps, and the first one nearly made her jump. Ava slept on, as unaware newborns did, but the obvious references to the Chantry’s power over Thedas left Líadan tight with tension.

The inside of the chantry did nothing to loosen Líadan’s tense limbs. There were even more statues, ones she recognized as Andraste, that stood guard over the nave and the altar. Other statues, she assumed, were Andraste’s followers during her rebellion against Tevinter. An older woman met them after they went up another, albeit short, flight of stairs.

“Grand Cleric Elthina,” Sebastian said. “Allow me to introduce Prince Malcolm Theirin of Ferelden, and Senior Warden Líadan Mahariel, also of Ferelden.”

After hearing Sebastian’s introduction, Líadan really wanted to turn to Marian and tell her ‘see, not a princess,’ but she refrained. She could do that later.

Elthina inclined her head in Malcolm’s direction. “Your Highness, it is good to meet you.”

Malcolm returned the nod. “Please, call me Malcolm, Your Grace.”

Despite being a high-ranked representative of the institution Líadan had every confidence in wanting to destroy her people, Elthina had surprisingly kind eyes. 

“It is good to meet you, as well, Senior Warden,” Elthina then said to Líadan. “Mahariel. Is that not the name of the clan situated at Sundermount?”

“It is.” Líadan wondered where Elthina was going with this, but Sebastian had promised no harm would come to anyone as a result of this visit. “They’re my birth clan. I’ve implored them to leave, but the Keeper refuses.”

“So, it is irregular for a Dalish clan to remain in one place for so long?”

“Very.”

Elthina nodded. “Then I must continue to redirect any of Knight-Commander Meredith’s overzealous templars who decide they would like to bring in the Keeper or otherwise harass the elves. We have enough internal matters to take care of within the city walls than to trouble ourselves with matters outside it—especially matters where peace currently exists.”

The comment, and outlook, shocked Líadan. As a general, unspoken, and unwritten rule, templars tended to leave Dalish clans alone, so long as the Dalish took cares to remain as hidden as possible from them, and Keepers and Firsts did not use magic in front of Chantry representatives. But like with the Ra’asiel before the Divine’s visit, if a clan remained in one obvious place for too long, the Chantry eventually could not ignore the presence of what they named apostate mages in a Keeper and a First. For a Grand Cleric, presumably able to give orders to a Knight-Commander, to express otherwise was refreshing.

“May I step closer?” Elthina asked Líadan. 

She gave her permission, and Elthina took enough steps to just bring her within touching distance. She extended a hand toward the sleeping infant nestled on Líadan’s chest. “And this is the sweet child born the same day the qunari assaulted Kirkwall?”

“Yes,” Malcolm answered before Líadan could. “She has an incredible sense of timing.”

Elthina’s soft chuckle was strangely comforting, which did nothing to help Líadan’s growing confusion. None of the Chantry representatives she’d encountered thus far had engendered this sort of instinctual trust. But the woman standing before her set at an ease she had never expected to find associated with the human Chantry. Líadan still did not trust the organization, and never would, but perhaps she could extend some trust to this woman. 

“Come,” she said, and motioned behind her. “I will bring you to a private chapel, so we do not have an audience.”

Maybe this was the sort of Chantry representation Malcolm had grown up with in Highever. Perhaps it was why he’d never condemned the Chantry as a whole, and why he had so much trouble reconciling the way the Chantry had treated him and his family, despite the evidence presented. Líadan could understand, after interacting with this Grand Cleric. She supposed, to a certain extent, she could also understand in regards to the templar who had helped them during the ritual when she and the others had gone into the Beyond. Cullen had been his name, a Knight-Captain, if she remembered correctly. After hearing what it had looked like from the Thedas end of the ritual, Cullen had shown remarkable patience and good judgement in not striking her down at the first flickers of possible possession. For his restraint, she was certainly grateful. Other templars in his position would not have done the same, and she and her daughter would not be alive.

In the small chapel, Elthina asked if she could hold the child and possibly give her a blessing. Líadan permitted both, trusting Sebastian and Elthina’s words that it would not override her own beliefs. It was not a dedication, Elthina explained. Merely asking Andraste and the Maker to watch over her, and to an extent, watch over her parents.

It was exactly as promised, no more, and no less. Elthina’s smile at Ava was kind and without any ulterior motive. Just an older woman who truly enjoyed children relishing the opportunity to hold an infant. “You know, I dedicated Marian’s mother to the Chantry,” said Elthina.

“No!” said Marian. “Did you?”

“I did. Your mother was a beautiful baby.”

Marian raised an eyebrow. “All right, if you’re not pulling my leg, then you are far older than you look, Your Grace.” 

“Marian!” said Sebastian. “The Grand Cleric would not tell a falsehood.”

“I wouldn’t call lying, in this case, not really. There’s a difference between kidding with someone and outright lying. Maker, Sebastian. Loosen up and pull your sense of humor out of your—”

“You did not, however, inherit your mother’s ability to filter her thoughts when she expresses them out loud,” said Elthina. “It gives you a certain… charm.” The humor hadn’t left her voice, and she slowly shook her head in amusement.

Honestly, Líadan hadn’t thought members of the Chantry capable of an obvious sense of humor, but this was one area in which she appreciated being proven wrong. 

Elthina relinquished Ava to Líadan before plucking an envelope from a pocket in her robes and handing it to Malcolm. During the exchange, Líadan noticed it had been sealed with wax imprinted with the Chantry sigil. “Here is a letter saying that your marriage is recognized, valid, and official in the Free Marches, even without having taken place in a chantry or officiated by a Chantry priest. As I know Sebastian has told you, in the Free Marches, Dalish bondings are valid marriages. Now, if you would grant me permission, I will send a letter to the Divine asking for a dispensation so that your marriage is recognized in every nation that belongs to the Chantry. It would take some time, of course, or it to be granted. Likely months, as these matters go. Your child, however, is legitimate, having been born within a recognized marriage.” She smiled at Malcolm. “So there’s no need to worry about gaining the approval of your Landsmeet and of the Divine, like with your young son.”

Malcolm glanced over at Líadan, his eyebrows raised. She shrugged. With Ava actually there, the compromise with the Landsmeet and allowing her to at least nominally become familiar with the Chantry didn’t seem so black and white. As much as Líadan had wished otherwise, half Ava’s heritage was human, and she _was_ human. Making things easier with the Landsmeet, and setting the path to make sure the marriage of Ava’s parents was fully recognized would be good for her. Líadan held in her remaining protest, and agreed with a nod.

“Should I hear anything, I will let you know,” said Elthina. “Sebastian told me that you can’t visit for too terribly long, so I will not hold you. Truly, it was wonderful to meet you. It isn’t every day you meet two people who fought an Archdemon, and then lived to tell the tale. May the Maker watch over you all.”

When they left the Chantry, the incense from the beginning noon service clung to their clothes. Sebastian stayed behind, ostensibly to help with the service, but Marian still muttered invectives under her breath about him, which made Líadan suspect it was more about avoiding Marian’s wrath than it was helping.

“The Grand Cleric isn’t so bad,” Líadan said as they reached the bottom of the steps. 

“I’d agree,” said Marian, who’d apparently been paying more attention than Líadan had assumed, “if she’d actually intervene sometimes with Knight-Commander Meredith.”

“The Knight-Commander did come off as rather… dedicated,” said Malcolm. “Except without the honorable overtones one usually associates with that word. I’d say zealous, but the zealots we met in Denerim were way worse than her. She seems to hold to the better precepts of the Chantry, if incredibly tightly.”

Marian sighed. “I worry about when she finally crosses the line. Her Grace is very neutral, meaning she refuses to intervene either way, with Knight-Commander Meredith or First Enchanter Orsino. I’m afraid that when one of them snaps and steps over the line—I think they’re in a race to see who will do it first—Elthina still won’t intervene. She means well, but… sometimes keeping the peace means _doing something_. Or, if you’re Sebastian, sometimes being a prince means _doing something_ , or someone, as the case may be.”

“Considering your hints are more like bashes to the head, how has he not picked up on them?” asked Malcolm.

“He has. It’s his sodding vows to Andraste. Maybe I’ll see if Her Grace will give him a talk about the facts of life, since he seems to have forgotten all of them. I bet she’ll think his idea of a ‘chaste marriage’ is absolute bullshit.”

“She does seem the kind of person who’d call bullshit, though maybe not using the actual word.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if she was born Fereldan. Then I watch her let Meredith do the things Meredith does, and realize that she couldn’t have been. If she were Fereldan, she’d be yelling at Knight-Commander Meredith in a hot second.”

“Have Sebastian double-teamed,” said Líadan. “Your mother and the Grand Cleric.”

“You know what? I just might do that.”

When they returned to the Amell estate, Taarbas remained at his post near the door. In the foyer, they found Keeper Emrys standing with Feynriel, Emrys with his customary pouch slung across his body, and Feynriel with a pack on his back. Clearly, they were readying to leave. Behind them stood a Dalish woman bearing the _vallaslin_ of Sylaise, but who wore clothing Líadan had seen the Kirkwall city elves wearing in the Alienage. She looked vaguely familiar, and Líadan easily put together that this woman was Feynriel’s mother, but passing family resemblance wasn’t the source of her familiarity. When Feynriel introduced her, having noticed the others arrive as he prepared to leave, Arianni’s name made the familiarity even more maddening.

Arianni gave her a soft smile. “Líadan—I had thought your name sounded familiar when Feynriel told me. Your mother was Gwenael? You were very young when I left the clan, but I was one of your mother’s hunting partners. It is good to see you came out of the Beyond alive and well, both you and your daughter.”

“Thank you.” Líadan remembered then, as clearly as she could from the faded memory of early childhood. Her mother had been very bitter that one of her favorite hunting partners had decided to leave the clan, which also left her less one of her usual hunting party. There had also been the matter of it rumored that she was leaving due to be with child by a human, but that was one of the less clear parts of the memory. Líadan had been quite young, and the complaints were voiced mostly out of her earshot. “Are you going with Feynriel and Emrys?”

“I am. I have been too long away from our people, and from what Keeper Emrys tells me, it would be unwise to return to the Mahariel.”

“He’s right,” said Líadan. Emrys raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored him. As they’d talked, the others had carefully stepped around them and disappeared into the other parts of the estate, Malcolm included. “I take it you’re leaving now?” she asked her grandfather.

“Yes. I need to be out of the human city as soon as possible. My clan has been too near human civilization for too long, and we must return to the wilds.” He exchanged a nod with Feynriel, and then Feynriel went outside to wait, Arianni behind him.

“ _Dareth shiral_ , then,” Líadan said to him.

“It _was_ good to see you, no matter what trials are between us.” Emrys reached out and smoothed her hair, as he’d done when she’d been in labor with Ava. “Stay well, _da’len_.” He paused, as if thinking something over, before he said, “There is a relic of the People I left for you upstairs. A _dar’misaan_ that I believe will suit your particular talents more than it suits mine. You are now its guardian. Use it wisely.” Then he was out the door before she could ask him what exactly it was he’d left. Neither one of them had ever been good with goodbyes.

Líadan barely had a chance to regain her emotional balance before Arianni slipped back inside. 

“I wanted to tell you,” Arianni started saying, and then sighed. “There’s… I thought I should say something, since I’ve been through some of what you will. If you’re open to hearing it.”

“Go on.” Líadan couldn’t bring herself to say no, not when Arianni was the only person she knew who could understand, even remotely, what she was feeling.

Arianni nodded, and her voice changed from hesitant to quite assured. “I won’t lie. It will be hard, maybe the hardest thing you’ve ever done, raising an elf-blooded child as a Dalish elf. While I wish the Gift wasn’t so hard on Feynriel, I would feel the same about that regardless of his heritage. But you should also know that I would never take back having him. He’s my son and I love him, just as she is your daughter and you will love her, and you were your mother’s daughter, and she loved you. _Dareth shiral_ , _da’len_.” Then Arianni was gone, before Líadan could ask the hundreds of questions she suddenly seemed to have, about her mother, about Feynriel, about balancing what they learned as Dalish elves with having and loving a human, elf-blooded child. 

Upstairs, she found the _dar’misaan_ Emrys had mentioned. He’d left a small, ancient book along with it, which detailed the blade’s peculiar make. Only a mage could use it, as it channeled magic. For someone like her, who was better with blades or a bow than pure magic with a stave, it was a perfect secondary to her bow, rather than just a mundane blade. She also recognized that it was the dar’misaan that had included in the set of armor that Emrys had guarded for centuries. She had no idea what to make of his gesture, and chose not to think about it, or its implications. It was too complicated, his departure was too fresh, and they’d never entirely healed the rift between them. While she would use the blade, she put aside the heavy emotions associated with it.

The few days they had left in Kirkwall went quickly, crowded with preparations, with a tour of Isabela’s ship—only her ship, not her cabin, or anything salacious that could be implied with ‘ship’—and with various farewells. Bethany had even gone to speak with Carver. When she returned from her visit, she hadn’t been scowling, and though she didn’t say much about it, it seemed to indicate the meeting had gone well. Either that, or she’d strangled her twin brother and hidden the body, but Líadan suspected that there would’ve been an outcry. 

Because Líadan wasn’t sure how well she’d do on the ship, even with Bethany’s help, Nuala took Ava in the sling, while Malcolm and Líadan chased Cáel, with Kennard’s help. On the docks, Anders handed Líadan a bag. When she shot him a questioning look at hearing the clinking from inside, he said, “Potions, to ward off seasickness. I didn’t forget, you know. Even if I don’t see it, I’d rather not you become that sick like last time ever again.”

Maybe there was more of Anders in him than they’d thought. “Keep in touch,” she said to him. “Just an occasional letter letting us know you haven’t been taken hostage by templars or been eaten by a dragon. You know, the usual.”

He smiled, and it touched his eyes. “I’ll do my best, so long as you give me updates about your little girl. Most other babes I’ve delivered, I never hear about again. The ones in the Circle, anyway. And around here, the news is rarely good, especially in Darktown. Babies have a hard time surviving all the illnesses that go around due to the closeness of the sewers—some people even attempt to live _in_ the sewers—and there’s only so much I can do, if they even manage to make it to me before the inevitable happens. Your daughter, though, she’ll be all right. All tucked away behind a hundred Wardens and all those stone walls, right?”

“One can hope,” said Líadan.

Merrill gave her a hug, and requested letters, and maybe possibly some sketches, if she could, of Ava as she got bigger. “You’ll be all right, _lethallan_ ,” Merrill said before she let go. Then she stood with the others on the docks as Líadan boarded the ship with Malcolm, Nuala, Kennard, Cáel, and Bethany. 

As Kirkwall and its grotesque cliffside statues faded into the horizon, Líadan stood at the stern of the ship, just in case Anders’ potions didn’t work. She also stood there so she could see her friend—friends—for as long as possible before they were out of sight. Then they were gone, leaving only the bright, empty sea in their places.

“I’ve been wondering,” Malcolm said from beside her, “could you have done what Morrigan did? Could you leave Ava behind, possibly forever?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t even… I don’t know how she did what she did. Whatever it is she has to accomplish, I can’t imagine what level of importance it must have to be able to leave her child behind. I just hope, whatever it is, that to her it turns out to be worth the sacrifice.”


	74. Chapter 74

“The legend says that before the fall of Arlathan, the gods we know and revere fought an endless war with others of their kind. There is not a hahren among us who remembers these others. Only in dreams do we hear whispered the names of Geldauran and Daern’thal and Anaris, for they are the Forgotten Ones, the gods of terror and malice, spite and pestilence. In ancient times, only Fen’Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones, for although he is kin to the gods of the People, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways and saw him as one of their own.” ****

—from _The Tale of Fen’Harel’s Triumph_ , as told by Gisharel, Keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish

**Morrigan**

****Since Morrigan had already thrown the idea of tact out the window, she pressed forward with the path she had embarked upon in dealing with the Arlathan elves. “The elves you left are weak because of their sorrow for what they believe they have lost.”

 ****The pained, wistful look upon Corraidhín’s face vanished, replaced by a gravity intensely focused on Morrigan. “Do not underestimate the power of sorrow, child,” he said to her. “Your own mother is filled with sorrow and chained by vengeance.” His hand went up, long fingers indicating their surroundings, and his eyes followed the expansive movement. “This respite is temporary. She will find this city. She will find you and your son and her grief will become yours.” His unsettling gaze returned to Morrigan. “Trust me when I say it is not a fate you would favor.” He cleared his throat. “Now, I need you to explain to us what this human with you is.”

“A nuisance.” Morrigan didn’t look, but she could practically hear Nathaniel rolling his eyes.

“Other than that,” said Corraidhín. “He is human, we know that much. Since we are in _Setheneran_ , there is no telling what effect, if any, he will have on our aging. If elves begin to fall ill, we will know. However, he is different, from what we can tell. There is something in him. A sickness. What is he?”

“I am a Grey Warden,” said Nathaniel.

“Some sort of martial order, I presume?” asked Corraidhín.

“Yes. The order was formed many Ages ago in order to combat the darkspawn and blights. Specifically, the order was created to kill archdemons.”

“Archdemons?”

“In the beginning, there were seven Old Gods slumbering beneath the surface. One by one, the darkspawn tunnel to them, awakening them and tainting them at the same time. It changes the Old Gods into Archdemons. Then they rise up from the surface, hundreds of thousands of darkspawn with them, and begin a Blight. It doesn’t end until the Archdemon is killed by a Grey Warden.”

Murmuring started from each end of the table. “Old Gods?” asked one person.

“Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Urthemiel, Razikale, Lusacan,” said Morrigan, doing her best not to sound bored or irritated, because they had known the source of her son’s soul—Urthemiel—which meant they were familiar with the Old Gods.The questioning was unnecessary and delayed her work.

“Oh, Valoel’s children,” said another. “Remember?” she went on, addressing the first. “Samandirel had trapped them in the earth, before we left. Then Airmid foretold that one of Valoel’s mortal children would return here with a child of her own who carried the soul of one of her firstborn.” She frowned. “Valoel’s firstborn, I mean, not her child’s. It’s very complicated.”

“Perhaps we should have stayed,” said Airmid.

“No, it was impossible,” said another. “We all would have perished. We all made sacrifices to be certain our way of life would survive.”

“Has it?” asked Morrigan. “Your way of life has become stagnant. Your culture has not grown. It has not changed. You cannot even allow yourselves to have children. Your people are the same people who left Thedas a millennium ago. Those whom you left behind were beaten again and again, and yet they have at least grown, as a people. I am not sure which of the two is sorrier.”

“Don’t hold anything back,” said Nathaniel. “After all, it isn’t as if you need their assistance.”

“I will not hide the truth from them, no matter however much they wish to hide themselves from it.”

“There’s telling the truth, and then there’s using it as a weapon.”

“It remains that Morrigan is a child of Valoel,” Corraidhín said loudly enough to be heard over the talk of the council. “Because you are, we will help you in whatever ways we can, child. Arlathan’s hospitality will be yours.” He nodded at Airmid. “My daughter will bring you to accommodations set aside for you. Now, if you would excuse us, this Council has much to discuss, in light of your revelations.”

Morrigan resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at the man as she left the chamber. A ridiculous rage threatened to overtake her ability to appear in perfect control, and that near loss of control alone helped fuel the rage. The only good thing about how the elf had set off her temper—calling her a child!—was that it overrode the spike of fear the mention of her mother’s tenacity had called forth.

As they exited the building and followed Airmid back through the small city, Nathaniel somehow managed to notice the change in Morrigan’s emotional balance. “You are upset.”

“You are impudent.”

The venom in her voice did little to affect him, and his tone remained the patiently quiet that infuriated her so. “You are upset, and for the first time since we arrived, it is not because of me.”

“He called me a _child_ ,” Morrigan found herself saying.

Nathaniel let out another one of those soft, infuriating chuckles. “I believe he has the right, since he’s at least a thousand years older than you. Anyone who’s over a thousand years younger would be a child in his eyes, I imagine.”

“Do not take his side.”

He held up his hands. “There are no sides to be taken, my lady. I was simply observing.”

“Observe elsewhere.”

The room Airmid led her to felt like a prison. Despite the harshness of Morrigan’s explanation—Nathaniel insisted it had been cruel—about what had happened to the elves left behind on Thedas, the elves of Arlathan were accommodating. They shared freely of their resources, including food, water, housing, and any scholarly material she wished. Nathaniel was given space to train, as well as elves who volunteered to practice archery with him, as it had not been a lost art. He was also afforded books, most in Elvish, some in the trade tongue, and he spent a great deal of time devoting himself to learning the language. Most elves refused to speak the trade tongue, leaving him at a disadvantage. Morrigan could approve of the choice to learn. She could not, however, approve of his being here, in Arlathan. 

Morrigan spent a great deal of time in the library, no longer dusty and forgotten, but a place of shared scholarship with Airmid. Despite the elf being alarmingly on the chatty side, Morrigan was pleased to discover the woman was a great repository of knowledge. What she had never suspected was that Airmid had been the mage largely responsible for casting the spell that had moved Arlathan. Morrigan happened on the fact when perusing a volume that documented the preparation and planning of the spell and the move. 

She glanced up from her reading in order to look across the room at Airmid, who absolutely did not project the power Morrigan would assume one would need for such an undertaking. “‘Twas your spell that moved Arlathan? Truly?”

“Only part.” Airmid looked up from her own work, no triumph in her eyes. Only sadness and regret dwelled there. “I wanted to bring all of _Elvhenan_ , but I couldn’t even manage every citizen of Arlathan. I couldn’t bring them all. No one has that kind of power, not even all mages combined, alive and dead, volunteers or conscripts, fuel or fire.”

“You used all the Tevinter prisoners, then?”

Nathaniel, tucked away in his corner, quietly reading, lifted his head to pay more attention after that question of Morrigan’s. 

“Better to sacrifice them than my own people,” said Airmid.

It seemed Airmid had more mettle than Morrigan had given her credit. “A wise choice.”

“Wise doesn’t take away the pain it caused. My own uncle, my father’s brother, remained in order to help guide the people left behind. It was the right thing to do, but it didn’t make it hurt any less to lose my uncle. After we were gone, we couldn’t help him. We couldn’t help any of our people. A few tried to travel back using the eluvians, but their connections were quickly lost, and we stopped trying after a few more never returned. But as long as the eluvians remained intact, we always had an option to go back, if we truly wanted. If they break, however, we will be trapped. I think it would be worse, for that to happen.” Airmid tilted her head to the side, as if reconsidering Morrigan. “You left loved ones behind, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“She left behind her other son, and that son’s father,” said Nathaniel.

Morrigan glared at him. “It is not your place to discuss such matters. If I wanted them discussed, _I_ would discuss them. Not you.”

“Is it true?” asked Airmid. “You left Cianán’s brother behind? And his father?”

“The man I left behind was not Cianán’s father.”

“Well done in dodging the question,” said Nathaniel.

Morrigan had about had enough of him. “It matters not. Yes, I left people behind.”

“You will not be able to aid him, if the eluvian is destroyed.” Airmid’s expression was filled with far more pity than Morrigan could bear. “Not your son, not your son’s father, none of them, because you will be trapped here as we are here in Arlathan.”

Trapped. Trapped, while those whom they would have helped would be beyond them. Were she one to admit to things like attachment, she would feel regret at never seeing them again. But she was not, and so she did not.

Nathaniel waited until later, as they were returning to their separate suites of rooms, to offer his own opinions on the matter.

“You loved him,” said Nathaniel.

The man had no sense of decency, no sense to leave her alone when it was clear she wished to be alone. She did not bother him when he brooded, which was often. Not that she kept track, because she did not. “I know no such thing.” She would be short with him, and he would go away.

“No?”

“No.” Now would be the time he chose to be dull instead of insightful. It was far past time to put an end to it, like she had with the bard, long ago. “Let me tell you this, and then let us speak of it no more. Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death. The love you speak of is something that would be more important to one than anything, even life. I know no such love.”

“Do you always believe it when you lie to yourself?” he asked.

“I do not lie. I prevaricate, yes. Obfuscate, yes. Lie? No.”

“Ah. So you do believe it. I’m surprised. You never struck me as the sort who would fall for a lie.”

“What makes you so certain I have lied?” He was smug. He was smug and his tone was mild and Morrigan did not appreciate either trait. “Is it something you decided on a whim? A peculiar flight of fancy? Tell me. I am curious.”

“I heard you,” he said. “Back at Drake’s Fall.”

She stopped. “You—” He was, she decided, the most irritating man to have ever lived. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

They did not speak of it again.

As they worked and adapted to life in Arlathan, Cianán flourished and grew, crawling then walking and climbing. Morrigan was astonished to discover that her son’s first word was not an expected sound. Not ‘mama,’ which he would have drawn from the syllables of ‘mother.’ Nor was it any adaptation or corruption of Nathaniel, for which she was ever grateful. Instead, it sounded suspiciously like ‘brother’ or ‘bother.’ It was difficult to tell, and Nathaniel certainly was a bother if there ever was one. The boy quickly moved onto the expected ‘mama,’ and then the dreaded repetition of ‘nana’ whenever he happened to see Nathaniel. Then the boy came up with ‘sister,’ even though he did not have one, and Morrigan doubted he’d ever heard the word.

**Meghan**

****Highever, Meghan saw as they crested the hill, didn’t seem to be in terrible disarray at first glance. Not until they got closer did she see the halted rebuilding of wings and walls, stopped for the winter. Work would resume in the spring, when temperatures were safe for the mortar to set properly. “It… doesn’t seem as terrible a shape as you made it out to be,” she said to Fergus as they rode into the bailey. “But still terrible.” She did enjoy how refreshingly honest she could be with the teyrn of Highever. She would miss it when she returned to Starkhaven, whenever that would be.

“Actually,” he said, “this is heaps better than it was after the high dragon attack and the battle with the templars.”

“In light of that, Castle Highever is in remarkably good condition.” She’d forgotten about the battle with the legions of templars. It had been easily eclipsed by the story of the rampaging dragon.

“How diplomatic of you, Lady Vael.”

“As I ever strive to be, Teyrn Cousland.”

The teyrn made a face. “Whenever anyone says ‘Teyrn Cousland,’ I think of my father. How about you call me Fergus. We’ve known each other long enough, and that way, I’m not spinning around trying to see where my father is.”

“Only if you agree to call me Meghan.”

He nodded. “I believe we have an accord.”

They had escaped Denerim with little fanfare, Seeker Cassandra not caring where they went, and Alistair having sent his former Crows hunting high and low for Seeker Leliana, who seemed to have disappeared. While Alistair had shared the same opinion as Fergus as to the possibility of a child, he and Anora had decided they wanted to know for sure. Seeker Cassandra had claimed not to know. They had mostly believed her, but they hadn’t been able to prove the truth either way. 

Meghan found Highever Castle wonderful, despite the work it needed, and the staff pleasant, accommodating, and possessing of the same refreshing honesty as the lord they worked for. It was, she discovered, the refuge she had needed from the beginning. 

One snowy afternoon, while Meghan read through a tome of Highever’s history in the the main hall, comfortably seated near the fireplace with Fergus sitting nearby, the door opened and Seneschal Robert stepped inside.

A solid dwarven woman in Grey Warden armor followed him in, and behind her was a small contingent of Wardens. 

Fergus stood. “Warden Commander! What brings you to Highever?” As he waited for her to answer, he signaled for the staff to bring food for the small Warden party.

“Missing a Warden,” said the dwarven woman.

“He’s probably in Kirkwall by now,” said Fergus. “It’s been weeks.”

“No, not him. He cleared that with me.” She waved off any coming observations. “I know, I know, I was shocked, too. It’s like he’s grown up or something.”

Meghan wasn’t sure if she would ever grow used to how Fereldans spoke about their royal family. They respected them, that much was apparent, but so many of them spoke as if they were normal, everyday Fereldans. Which, Meghan supposed, they were, but she’d never encountered a nation where its people acknowledged the fact out loud. 

“Warden Commander Hildur, my guest is Lady Meghan Vael of Starkhaven,” said Fergus, inclining his head in Meghan’s direction. “Lady Vael, this is Hildur, Warden Commander of Ferelden. She bosses my little brother around better than anyone I know.”

“Of course I do, Cousland.” Hildur smiled at him, and then at Meghan. “Pleased to meet you. Sorry you’re stuck spending so much time with this man. On the bright side, this place is a lot less dreary than Vigil’s Keep.”

“You, as well,” said Meghan, though she was surprised to learn that she wasn’t sorry about spending time with Fergus. He’d proven a good friend.

Hildur nodded at her again, and then returned to Fergus. “No, I’m not looking for your not-as-wayward brother. I’m talking a different Warden. Incredibly tall, possessing of the driest sense of humor this side of the Waking Sea, and wields a sword taller than your King.”

Fergus quirked an eyebrow. “Sten’s gone?”

“Nughumper up and left, said not a word to me. Qunari don’t go doing such things without a damn good reason. He’d gone on patrol, got separated, and never came back. First, I thought he was dead, now I’m starting to think he got lost on purpose. My last hope was that he’d turned up in your area, either injured or having found a recruit or something that a qunari would find important, other than fulfilling their duty to the Qun.”

“I’m afraid no one’s seen him that I’ve heard. I suspect I’d hear about a wandering qunari.”

She sighed. “Damn. And I saved his ungrateful arse from dying, too.”

“You going to keep looking for him?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you want to drag an unwilling qunari anywhere?”

“I’m not entirely certain I’d be capable, nor willing, if I even were.”

“Exactly.”

Fergus smoothed his goatee and looked around the hall. “Any idea why or where he might have gone?”

The staff bustled in with trays of food that they set on the table. Fergus made a small gesture toward Hildur’s Wardens, and they immediately sat down and started in on the meal. Meghan shook her head at the scene. She’d heard about Grey Warden appetites, had viewed a hint of it when she’d had the lunch with Prince Malcolm, but she’d never witnessed the appetites en masse. 

Hildur sat at one end of the table, but only took a chunk of bread that she moved back and forth between her hands. “Fairy sure he’s hightailed it to Kirkwall to aid his fellow qunari. Got some news that there’s a bunch of them still trapped there and they want out something fierce. Headed by the Arishok, too, who just happens to be the qunari who’d given Sten his mission in the first place. So, I think our missing qunari Warden has gone to finish the task he was given. I suppose I’ll be fine with it. He’ll come back or he won’t, but I’m not chasing anyone to Kirkwall with the qunari unrest going on.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, not that I’d be so inclined to follow anyone there, even without the qunari problem.”

“How dangerous is it in Kirkwall?” asked Fergus.

Meanwhile, Meghan stood up and moved closer, worry for her brother starting to pervade her thoughts.

“I suspect Malcolm, Líadan, Bethany, and the others will be fine since they’ll be outside the city and with the Dalish. Whatever ritual they were going to do was only supposed to take a day, and I can’t imagine them overnighting behind city walls. I’d only be worried if they were staying inside the city like that. Last time the qunari got restless in Kirkwall, ages ago, it didn’t end well for the Kirkwallers.”

Sebastian. Meghan had to warn him; she had to do something. He was all she had left of her family, and this time she had warning before the killers could get to him. “My brother is there,” she said out loud. “Sebastian is there, in the city.”

Hildur’s look on her was sorrowful. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Not yet.” She started for the door. “This time, I can do something.”

Fergus reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “You’ll get yourself killed if you go. You’ll end up either wiping out your family entirely, or if your brother survives, which he very well might, leaving him absolutely alone.”

“But, I—”

“There’s nothing you can do, not now.” His hand was on her crippled arm, and she did not miss his pointed glance at it. “I know you want to save him, to warn him and be absolutely sure. I know exactly where you’re coming from, but it really is too late, even though you think it isn’t.”

Fergus had a point, and a correct one, however much she might dislike it. It didn’t stop her from taking her anger out on him, and not speaking to him for days, beyond what decorum required. As the reports arrived from ships that sailed in the Waking Sea, the outlook became incredibly dire. Reports that the city had been sacked, that Viscount Dumar had been slain, that the city lay in rubble, that the citizens had either converted to the Qun or been slaughtered. It got to the point where Meghan noticed the pinch of worry on Fergus’ face. He probably thought his own brother not as safe as once assumed. Meghan recognized the pervading fear in Fergus, because it was the same fear that she fought—that the rest of her family, the small part left of it, was being taken from her, and there was nothing she could do.

Yet, neither of them stopped listening to reports given from servants who took daily trips to the harbor. Hildur had remained with her Wardens as Highever’s guests, and she did her best to bolster both Meghan and Fergus into feeling a little less scared, but the worry was too pervasive to eradicate. Slowly, in a mere trickle compared to the flood of bad news before it, more favorable reports came in. The population of Kirkwall was mostly intact, as was the city. The Arishok was gone, possibly slain in combat, but no one had anything certain.

Then one of the ships brought in the most positive news they could have gotten, in the form of actual people. 

“Teyrn Fergus!” shouted the enthusiastic lad who’d been sent up from the town as a runner to the castle. “You have to get down to the harbor!”

Fergus, who looked to not have slept well for many a night in a row, glanced slowly up from his tea. “Are we being invaded? Because if we aren’t being invaded, then I get to finish my tea first.”

“I… no, we’re not, not that I saw,” said the boy. “Can’t you take your tea with you? I really do think you’ll want to come down, your lordship. There’s a ship flying the mabari rampant flag, ser—”

Fergus was out of his chair, grabbing his thrown-aside cloak as an afterthought, and striding for the door before the boy could finish his message. He touched Meghan on the shoulder on his way by, and then beckoned for her to come with him. “Alistair would’ve sent a messenger telling me he’s coming,” he told her. “Besides that, he would’ve come by land. That has to be my little brother and my little sister-in-law on that ship.”

Meghan followed him without question. She was grateful she’d picked up and put on her own cloak on the way, for even with her hood up, the light, fluffy snow clung to her eyelashes.

As the neared the barbican, they saw Hildur speaking with the ancient, shriveled Warden whom Meghan could only describe as unsettling. 

Hildur broke off from her conversation with the old Warden to call to them, “Where’s the party?”

“My brother’s ship might be in,” said Fergus.

Hildur whispered one more thing to the wizened Warden, and then he slowly started back to the keep as Hildur elected to follow Fergus and Meghan to the town of Highever.

“Who _is_ that guy?” Fergus asked as they walked down the road to the town.

“Someone who’s been stationed at Soldier’s Peak,” said Hildur, and then left it there, giving no further explanation.

“You aren’t going to tell me more, are you?”

She shook her head. “Sadly, no. Just don’t cross him.”

Fergus lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t want to cross his _path_ , much less cross _him_. I’ll continue giving him a wide berth.”

“Wise choice.”

By the time they got to the harbor itself, the ship had finished mooring, and all of them saw the flag the messenger had spoken about. On the pier, near the pilings, a Rivaini woman spoke with the harbor master. To Meghan, the woman looked much like Isabela, the Rivaini she’d met in Kirkwall. Her manner of dress was similar, and she didn’t even wear a cloak to ward off the elements. The resemblance only strengthened as they approached the two, enough that Meghan said, “Isabela?” when they were within talking distance.

The woman turned and smiled. “It’s Captain Isabela, once again.” She approached Meghan with open arms, and put one of them around Meghan’s shoulders. “Now, sweet thing, you should be happy to know that your brother is alive and well.” Isabela paused to reassess her statement. “Alive and physically well. Alas, he’s continued to turn down Hawke’s advances, despite clearly being in love with the woman. Not even lust! It’s love, and all your dear brother can talk about is Andraste. Meanwhile, Hawke’s pants are so hot for him that they’re about to burst into flame any day now if he doesn’t do something. Do you think you could go to Kirkwall and talk some sense into him?”

“I don’t know?” All Meghan could think about was her relief that Sebastian was alive and unhurt. She also did not want to think about her brother’s sex life, or lack thereof, in any way.

“We can talk plans later.” Isabela swung her attention to Fergus. “Now, you must tell me who this luscious man is. I could just wrap myself up in the warmth of his eyes.”

“Teyrn Fergus Cousland,” said Fergus, looking only slightly discomfited at Isabela’s comments. He extended a hand next to him, toward Hildur. “This is Warden Commander Hildur. We think you’ve got some of her Wardens aboard your ship.”

“Oh, I do. I tried to keep them, but they keep talking about things like ‘family,’ and ‘duty,’ and ‘responsibility,’ so they never stay. They should be up shortly. They’ve got extra cargo, so it’s taking them a bit longer.”

“Five sovereigns says Líadan had the baby,” Hildur said to Fergus.

“You’re on,” said Fergus. “No one’s timing can be that bad, not even if she’s my brother’s kid.”

Isabela winked at him. “You made a sucker’s bet, sweetness. But I suspect it’s a win for you, either way.”

Fergus grinned so widely and honestly that, for a moment, the day didn’t seem as dreary to Meghan. “You hear that?” he said to her. “I’m an uncle again!”

“And I’m five sovereigns richer,” said Hildur. “Win-win.”

When Malcolm, Líadan, and the others accompanying them stepped onto the pier, they were immediately accosted by an overly-enthusiastic Fergus. Part of Meghan was jealous that Fergus had family to greet, while the rest of her was happy for him, and for the others. While Líadan appeared tired, she also seemed well, the tired new mother look one Meghan had seen with her sister-in-law in Starkhaven. Instead of the nurse carrying the baby, it was Líadan, and even with Fergus’ cajoling, Líadan wouldn’t let him see more than the babe’s face while they stood out in the snow. 

“You can see her in the nice, warm keep of yours,” Líadan said to Fergus. “Then you can hold her all you want, I promise.”

“Here,” said the nurse, whom Meghan was fairly certain went by the name Nuala, “you can carry your nephew. Or chase after him, either way.”

“He could probably beat us all up to the castle first,” said Malcolm.

“So he’s walking?”

“Running, more like. Chases Revas around all the time. Of course, she thinks it’s great fun.”

The mabari who was trotting around the entire group, sniffing each person in turn, barked in agreement. Meghan didn’t think she’d ever get over how intelligent mabari had turned out to be. She’d thought it a myth, just a nation talking up one of the things they were known for, up until she’d met her first mabari. They were shockingly intelligent, beyond even that of the horses Meghan had grown up with. Fergus grabbed Cáel and lifted him in the air, making the toddler squeal with laughter, before he settled him in an arm.

Isabela made her farewells and declined to visit, saying she had to restock and head right back to Kirkwall if she wanted to beat out the coming storm. Her parting shot to Bethany of “Remember, women are good for six!” made the Warden blush, but she refused to explain the reference.

The walk back to the castle was noisy with familiar chatter as Malcolm and Fergus filled each other in on what the other had missed.

“Get any recruits?” asked Hildur.

“No,” said Malcolm. “Well, maybe. You’ll have to ask Anders. We did nearly get robbed, though.”

“We did not,” said Líadan. 

He rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. Someone _tried_ to rob us. Several someones. I suppose we could’ve recruited them, but Anders scared them away.”

“ _Anders_ scared robbers away?”

“That’s a story and a half, let me tell you,” said Malcolm. “But probably best not told out in the open like we are.”

Meghan assumed he was referred to more Grey Warden secrets. The chatter died down as the wind picked up, and only once they were back inside Highever Castle’s warm keep did it start back up again. Líadan made good on her promise to Fergus, and he happily sat in one of the large chairs near the expansive fireplace, holding his tiny new niece in his arms. Cáel had been asleep on his feet when his uncle had set him down, which meant Nuala had taken him up for a nap, his bodyguard following. 

“I take it Isabela told you that Sebastian is alive and well?” Malcolm asked Meghan.

“In her own way, yes.”

He nodded. “The other details I have are that the family behind the conspiracy to kill your family has been ferreted out, and those responsible for orchestrating everything killed. The Harimanns, I think Sebastian told me. He said to tell you that Flora and Brett are well, but their mother didn’t make it. Something about their mother being a hidden apostate who practiced blood magic and succumbed to a desire demon. You’ll have to get the full details from him. Long and short of it is that the threat is gone, and even the mercenaries responsible for killing your family are all dead, because apparently Marian Hawke is some kind of deadly force all on her own.”

“I’ve witnessed it firsthand,” said Meghan. She never would have suspected the Harimanns for any sort of usurpers; they’d always been such staunch supporters of the Vael family. She supposed Sebastian, having dealt with them firsthand, would have better information. “Did Sebastian say anything about seeing me?”

“I asked him to visit Ferelden, but he said he’d have to think about it. Something about obligations or service or some other kind of bullshit—”

“Don’t hold back or anything,” said Hildur.

“You’d be saying the same thing, had you heard him,” Malcolm said over his shoulder. Then he turned back to Meghan. “Was your brother always that indecisive? Because wait till I tell you the plan he came up with in order to keep his supposed vows to Andraste _and_ marry Marian.”

Knowing what she did of her brother’s life before he entered the Chantry, Meghan couldn’t help her smile. “If I told you what my brother used to be like, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Insufferable rake,” Fergus called from his seat. “What?” he asked when everyone swung around to look at him. “Nathaniel Howe squired in the Free Marches, and he and I were good friends. He wrote letters, and when he was in Starkhaven, he told me about Sebastian Vael, and then later, he updated me about Sebastian being thrown into the Chantry.”

“There you have it,” Meghan said to Malcolm. Though, from her perspective, it hadn’t been her brother being thrown into the Chantry so much as it had been banished. To a certain extent, she’d felt punished, as well, having lost the friendship she’d had with her brother.

Malcolm rocked back on his heels. “Well, the former insufferable rake who happens to be your brother came up with this thing called a ‘chaste marriage,’ where he’d marry Marian Hawke, but would remain chaste.” He squinted in thought. “Because of vows or something. Vows, by the way, the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall had released him from, but whatever. Andraste.”

“He’s older than me, and if he’s been released from his vows, it means he’s the rightful heir of Starkhaven.” Relief surged through Meghan at the realization, that it wouldn’t be her responsibility to retake Starkhaven. To be sure, she would be there to aid her brother in whatever way possible, but it wouldn’t be her campaign to lead. “He can’t marry someone and stay chaste. There’s me, there’s him, and there’s our useless usurper of a distant cousin Goran, and that’s all for Vaels.” Merciful Andraste, there were so few of them left. “Maker, he can’t stay chaste, full stop.”

Malcolm nodded. “I tried telling him that, since Theirins recently went through the same kind of thing, and Couslands are stuck in that current quandary at the moment. So I tried to get through to him about the heirs thing.”

“How’d that go?” asked Fergus.

“He’s still chaste, isn’t he? At least that’s what I could tell from Marian’s comments. That’s how it went,” Malcolm said to his brother. Then he looked at Meghan again. “So, you might have to go to Kirkwall if you want to see your brother and possibly beat some sense into him. Marian Hawke would probably help you.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to a city where the Chantry is that powerful, even if my brother is there.” What she couldn’t deny, however, was that Marian Hawke, of the Amell family of Kirkwall, would be a good match for her brother. There was the matter of her being a mage, but there stood a decent chance of overcoming that obstacle. Much would depend on the precedent Ferelden would set in its next Landsmeet, when it decided on Prince Malcolm’s marriage and what Warden Líadan’s status would be. Right now, the Dalish elf who was already tacitly part of the Fereldan royal family sat comfortably near the fire, looking ready to doze off at any second. Fergus Cousland, who happened to be second-only to royalty in Ferelden when it came to holdings and power, sat nearby, holding Líadan’s sleeping newborn. For that matter, the sleeping newborn was the legitimate daughter of one of Ferelden’s Theirin princes, though her mother was both elf and mage. If the Landsmeet accepted that, then if Sebastian wished to marry a member of the Kirkwall nobility who happened to also be a mage, he might not come across as much opposition. 

It also helped that Meghan rather liked Marian Hawke. “I will help my brother, and I would love to see him, but I just can’t bring myself to go to a stronghold of the Chantry.”

“I don’t think anyone here will argue with that sentiment,” said Malcolm.

“Nope,” said Fergus.

“Not me,” said Líadan.

Even the staff present in the great hall voiced their agreement. The attack from the Divine’s templars had damaged Highever’s relationship with the Chantry, Meghan saw, and the damage went far deeper than anyone on the outside could imagine. “Yet, with the conspirators dead, it does mean I’m no longer in immediate danger, which means I no longer require asylum.”

“I doubt Alistair and Anora would make you leave the country just because the immediate danger’s gone,” said Líadan, who appeared to be waking up. “Especially when you don’t have a home to return to.”

“You’re welcome to stay at Highever for as long as you’d like,” said Fergus. 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow at Fergus. “Oh, really?”

“It’s called ‘hospitality,’ little brother,” said Fergus. “It’s wrapped up in this thing called ‘etiquette,’ which goes along with these things called ‘manners’ and also being a nice person.”

Meghan had once believed the two men to be foster brothers, but it had become readily apparent to her that they were brothers, and that Malcolm was as much a Cousland as he was a Theirin. The Couslands truly had raised him as their own. She also did not think too hard about the implications Malcolm seemed to be making. She didn’t believe there was much to think about, honestly. Fergus had suffered heavy losses in the Blight, and Meghan had recently lost her entire family. Both she and Fergus needed friends, as they’d both come to agree, and that’s what they were. Given Highever was such a large holding, there wouldn’t be anything untoward to be assumed were she to stay here. 

And she did want to stay at Highever.

“Manners also dictate that you go back to Denerim, apologize to the nice Seeker Cassandra, and also say hello to your other brother, who happens to also be your King,” Fergus continued saying to his brother.

Malcolm pulled a face. “I don’t want to apologize to Seeker Cassandra. Besides, she’ll yell at me.”

“Probably.” Fergus looked over at Meghan. “We’ll have to go back, too. The Landsmeet will be soon, and with all of my family being in Denerim for it, you’d be here alone. I mean, if you’d like to remain behind, you’re welcome to, but I figured you’d like to not be in a large castle lacking in inhabitants.”

It was true. Part of what made Highever so comforting was its atmosphere, and a large part of that was due to Fergus’ presence. She nodded to him. “I will go. I am interested in seeing a Landsmeet, if I could get permission to observe.”

“I could probably swing that,” said Malcolm.

“Let me,” said Fergus. “You’re already going to be asking a lot.”

“I could even speak on his behalf, as a representative of a royal family of the Free Marches,” said Meghan. She wanted to help, especially since the Theirins and the Couslands and even Ferelden had done so much to help her. “Since the danger has passed, I can officially acknowledge who I am, instead of hiding and denying. I can explain how recognition of Dalish bondings work in the Free Marches, and how my own family would have responded to it.”

“And how would they have?” Empty of hostility, Líadan’s tone spoke only of curiosity.

“It’s an explanation of why my brother is being so obstinate about the vows he made. In Starkhaven, vows are taken very seriously, no matter to whom they’re made. We don’t break vows; it just isn’t done. So if a member of the royal family entered into vows with another, no matter what the ceremony, from Dalish bonding, to Chantry marriage, to hand-fasting, it’s considered a marriage.” Meghan inclined her head toward the sleeping child Fergus held. “Children would be legitimate. The only question would be if the child or children would be able to inherit any hereditary titles, and perhaps the question of what title the spouse should have.”

“The law of the land does state that a member of the royal family does need approval of the monarchy to marry, and that approval must be given in front of a Landsmeet,” said Fergus.

“We’ve got half that,” Malcolm said to Fergus. “You were there when Alistair insisted I propose. Not just permission. _Insisted_.”

Líadan turned a questioning look on him. “Just how did he do that?”

“He sat on me.”

Meghan laughed out loud at the image of the King of Ferelden sitting on his brother, like children would do in a fight. Fereldans, she decided she rather liked, no matter what her opinion of them had been before.

The morning found her taking a final stroll on Highever’s grounds, as close to the cliffside as she could. The salty air above the Waking Sea was relaxing in a way she couldn’t describe, and combined with the pounding of the surf far below, the walks like this she’d taken every morning were soothing. If she could take this peace of Highever when she left, she surely would.

“There you are!” she heard Fergus shout from somewhere behind her. “I was looking for you to see when you’ll be ready.”

“Whenever,” she said, surprised that Fergus didn’t feel like an intruder in her quiet. “I don’t have much, if you’ll recall. I just wanted to smell the sea one more time, before we left. Starkhaven was nothing like this.”

Fergus fell into step beside her. “What did Starkhaven smell like?”

“Fish, if we were lucky. Rotting fish, if we were not.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“It was.” _All of it._

She was glad she was already looking down at the water crashing over the rocks, because she felt the start of tears prickling at her eyes. Princesses did not cry, she remembered her father saying, and she forced them back. But when she raised her head, Fergus was giving her a curious look, and she realized with dread that she’d said the ‘all of it’ part out loud.

Before she could apologize and change the subject, he spoke. “I suspected that it was. Part of me has always wondered if it was worse to be there and watch them die and not be able to stop it? Or is it worse in my imagination, and yet _still_ not be able to stop it? It’s a question, isn’t it? Does the imagination come up with worse things than reality can muster?”

“Yes,” she said. “Reality is far simpler. They died, and it could not be stopped. We lived, and we do not know why.”

As if he knew her thoughts, Fergus took her crippled hand in his. The tears returned, and she did not know why.

 


	75. Chapter 75

“In a land where death and politics are intertwined, one should be polite.” ****

—Galen Vedas, 9:6 Dragon

**Malcolm**

****Once they were in Denerim and safely within the confines of the Warden compound, where secrets would most assuredly be kept secret, Malcolm had to ask.

“Hildur,” he said quietly as she poked around what was essentially his study, though Oghren had used it during the weeks he’d been gone, and it _showed_ , “what’s with that Warden?”

“Which Warden? We’ve got lots, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“The really old one.”

“Avernus?”

“Yeah, him. What’s up with him? He _smells_ old. That’s how old he is.”

She chuckled. “He’s hundreds of years old. A reformed blood mage, but the blood magic kept him alive. Oh, plus this reconfigured Joining potion he has, and this other potion already-Joined Wardens can take to change the makeup of the taint in them.”

“You lost me.” To be honest, she’d lost him at ‘hundreds of years old,’ but he’d tried to pay attention to the rest. It helped that they’d arrived when the rest of the Wardens had been out back training, so the building itself was largely empty and quiet. It also meant they’d been able to settle in before the questions started. His ability to concentrate, however, was still suspect.

Hildur dug around in the pouch on her belt and came out with a small vial. “This.” The liquid inside was darker than blood when she held it up toward the lantern. “It changes the taint by harnessing its power, and expends the corruption in other ways, which lessens the corruption of the body. I’ve had all the Wardens take it, including myself. It’ll make you live longer than the taint would’ve allowed you to, and no one’s had any ill-effects. Just you, Bethany, and Líadan are all who’s left, and if Anders ever gets his butt back down here to Ferelden, even for a visit, he can have it, too.” She extended the vial, and Malcolm cautiously took it from her hand. “Right. So you take yours—don’t worry, it won’t knock you out or anything—and I’ll go bring Líadan and Bethany theirs.” When he didn’t move, she added, “I’ll just wait right here until you do. Just in case.”

“Because that’s really going to raise my confidence.” But he sighed and downed the potion anyway, and then went scrambling for a waterskin to wash the taste out of his mouth. Maker, why couldn’t anyone make potions that didn’t taste like they’d fermented in a dirty boot?

Hildur smiled at him. “See? Wasn’t so bad, was it?” She lifted a hand. “Don’t answer that. I’m going to go find Bethany and Líadan so they can have their share. I think the rest of the crew is back from training. That means you should probably talk to Oghren and find out what’s been happening here while you’ve been gone.”

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Oh, you do! Trust me.” Then she practically flitted out of the room, and Malcolm couldn’t recall when he had ever seen nor suspected Hildur to flit.

He trusted her, but he trusted her sense of humor—used often at his expense—more. However, he had to admit to curiosity, because all the Wardens seemed perfectly fine, the compound was still standing, and Hildur had never sent anyone down to take over for Oghren. He left his study, which he decided Oghren was going to clean at swordpoint if he refused, and went hunting for his friend.

As with most of the other Wardens, Oghren sat in the main hall. He was sharing a table with Sigrun and Eleri, with Eleri going over some finer points of Avvar culture. 

“We’re very superstitious,” she told Oghren. “Our superstitions make a whole host of things disrespectful.”

“Like what?”

Eleri counted out each item with her fingers. “Speaking or coughing around dead bodies, holding objects in the right hand, and most importantly, possessing anything containing feathers.”

Oghren’s eyebrows nearly shot up to his hairline. “Really?”

“No.”

He burst out laughing. “I like you! I don’t care what Sigrun says about you.”

Sigrun rolled her eyes. “Oghren, I haven’t said a single bad thing about her, ever.” Then she motioned over her shoulder, towards Malcolm. “And now you don’t have to stay sober anymore. Someone should fetch Shianni so you can both have a drink at the same time.”

“Why would Shianni need to be fetched?” asked Malcolm.

“After you left, Shianni challenged Oghren to remain sober while you and Líadan were gone.” Sigrun grinned. “I got to be the judge! Sadly, they’ve both been sober.”

“But now that you’re back,” said Oghren, “we can have a right good sodding party. Well, after I see the new nuglet, because I figure I should meet her while sober. That way, the elf might not hurt me. You all snuck in while the rest of us were working. Not fair.”

“Because you wanted us to risk waking a newborn with the enthusiastic shouts and jostling with a proper Warden welcome home greeting?”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Eleri.

“Suppose you have a point. All right. Well, someone should go get Shianni so she doesn’t get her knickers in a twist when I have my drink.”

Oghren’s focus on Shianni was making Malcolm really start to speculate in directions he never wanted to speculate in. “Oghren, are you and Shianni…?” In the end, he couldn’t say it. Just couldn’t.

Not like he needed to with Oghren around. “Bucking the forbidden horse? No! We’re… whatcha call it… drinking buddies. Or non-drinking buddies through this sodding bet, and now that it’s over, we’re back to the drinking. She’s the best drinking partner I’ve ever had! Helped me get back with Felsi.”

“Who?”

“You don’t want to know, not from him,” said Sigrun. “She’s his girlfriend. Works at the Gnawed Noble. Apparently, he knew her in Orzammar or something.”

Oghren looked like he was ready to launch into his description of Felsi, but they were saved by Líadan coming into the hall while holding Ava, and everyone got wonderfully distracted. Even Rhian cooed over the newborn, which Shianni heard right as she walked in, and then proceeded to give her cousin no end of shit.

“Just what are you smiling at?” Hildur asked from beside him.

“It’s good to be home,” he said.

She nodded. “It is, isn’t it?”

The door opened again and Alistair came in, through the front, which surprised Malcolm. His guards stayed outside, and Anora was nowhere in sight. While Anora didn’t generally visit the Warden compound—Malcolm could count on one hand how many times she’d dropped by—he’d figured she might have come along to see Líadan and meet Ava. Before he had a chance to ask, Alistair wrapped him in a hug, and then darted over to see his new niece. Malcolm rolled his eyes. Though, he supposed, at least Alistair had the decency to greet him before they went to see Ava. At this point, between Ava and Cáel, he was beginning to realize that when it came to family and friends, he was a lowly second after those two. 

“She’s tiny!” said Alistair.

“You’ll have your own soon enough,” said Líadan.

“True. That’s why Anora’s not here—I mean, she’s not in labor or anything—but she’s been exhausted lately and didn’t feel up to the walk.”

“So you need practice, do you?” asked Líadan. Alistair started to protest, but she handed him Ava, whom he held even more delicately than he’d ever done with Cáel. 

“I could break her.”

“Break her and I’ll break you. She was too much work.”

He raised his eyebrow. “Do I even want to hear the story? It isn’t like she chose the worst possible time to come out, right? I mean, deciding to be born while you’re in the Fade _and_ the qunari attacked Kirkwall is just ridiculous.”

Líadan stared at him.

“Wow. I have no words. Just… wow. Good thing you won’t have anymore, because they’d have to top _that_ , and I don’t think it could be done. Ever, pretty much.” He looked down at Ava. “She’s cute though, in that little old man sort of way. I’m told that all newborns look like this, and that they usually don’t get for-real cute until a couple months old. I mean,” he said, taking a tiny step back from the glaring Líadan, “I’m not saying she’s ugly! Just not… all right, I’m going to shut up and hold my cute, tiny, little niece.”

“Are the Seekers still here?” Malcolm asked.

Alistair laughed. “Oh, yes they are. Seeker Cassandra _really_ wants to talk to you. I told her you’d meet her tomorrow morning. I’ll come with you.”

“To protect me?”

“Maker, no. She’s going to yell at you, and I’m totally going to watch. I wanted to sell tickets, but Anora shot me down. You should thank her, when you get the chance.” He frowned. “I’ve got other things to tell you, but we should probably find a smaller room.”

After a chorus of complaints from the others about the King usurping their time, they made their way to the library. They left a hungry Ava with Nuala, who handed Cáel to them, and then watched as Cáel proceeded to walk through the shelves of the library and remove every book that he could.

“Maker’s breath, but he’s strong,” said Alistair. “Should we stop him?”

“Not unless he tries to rip the pages. Besides, the really boring, mostly unimportant books are on the lower shelves,” said Malcolm. “And I think he’s fast enough to avoid any of the really heavy ones falling on him and hurting him.”

“If you say so.” Alistair looked unconvinced, until he watched Cáel deftly avoid a tome he’d just pulled. Then Alistair shrugged. “Right, so, we need to talk about Eamon.”

“Where _is_ Eamon?” asked Malcolm. “I thought he’d take the first moment he had to shout or bluster or something, but I haven’t heard about him at all.”

Alistair took a breath. “That’s because I exiled him.”

Malcolm stopped watching his son long enough to shoot a questioning look at his brother. “Not that I’m complaining, but why?”

“He was looking for a cousin of ours. Half-brother, if he got lucky. He was led to believe that one of the Orlesian bards may have had a child by Cailan or Maric or maybe even Brandel. Anyway, a ghost told me he was going to commit treason, so I called him on it, and there you go.”

“A ghost? Do you often take counsel from ghosts?” He supposed that if it was from one of the spirits they’d seen during the gauntlet they’d had to pass before they got to Andraste’s ashes, he could understand. Otherwise, he suspected Alistair might need to go talk with someone who knew about these things and could fix them.

“Not a ghost. Leliana. Ha, guess what? She’s alive. Didn’t die. All a trick.”

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could think of to say because it made no sense at all. 

“How did Anora take it?” asked Líadan.

“Not well,” said Alistair. “Partly because I was stupid.” He went on to explain how he’d mishandled the questions from Anora.

Malcolm halfway listened, because it sounded like the same sort of mistakes he made all the time. The other half of his mind mulled over the reality of Leliana being alive and how to make sense out of it. Then it did, because he remembered that Leliana had been an _Orlesian bard_. “Alistair,” he said, not caring that he interrupted him, though in retrospect, he realized his brother might have been telling them that he loved his wife, which was huge, but this was bigger. “Alistair. Did you not think this through? Has anyone thought—”

“What, that the Orlesian bard wasn’t one who slept with Maric, Cailan, or Brandel, but possibly me during the Blight, and _that’s_ the bastard the Seekers hinted to Eamon about? No, hadn’t crossed my mind at all. Why do you ask?”

So he had. Right, because not seeing it would require having a giant mote in one’s eye blinding one to the obvious possibility. “Um, no reason. None at all. I take it that you’ve looked into it?”

“As much as can be. Leliana’s with the Seekers, but no one’s forthcoming with information. Cassandra has told me, after swearing on a copy of the Chant of Light that she was telling the truth, that she did not know of any child Leliana has had. However, she also told me that she doesn’t know much at all about Leliana, that no one really does, and the only person I could appeal to for information, other than Leliana herself, would be a Revered Mother whose name she didn’t even know. I have no idea who she could be. Or where she is. Or where Leliana is. And I doubt Leliana would show her face again, because I _might_ have told her I’d run her through if she did.”

“Oh, Alistair,” said Líadan. “Not that I can really blame you, but still. Honestly, I didn’t see this coming—her being alive. Not when she was… she was the kindest person to me, in the beginning. Like in the Deep Roads, when I pissed everyone off, she was still there to help me. It’s hard for me to reconcile the two different versions of her, so I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you.”

“What I can’t decide is if she’s better or worse than Morrigan,” said Alistair.

“Does it matter?” asked Malcolm.

Alistair shrugged. “Not really. But trying to puzzle that out means I don’t have to think about the other things.”

“I’m still trying to work out how she managed to live, considering she did take a dagger to the heart. Literally, mind you.”

“Sorcery. Magic. Trickery. Subterfuge. Bard things. What I do know is that I don’t like feeling used.”

Malcolm didn’t tell him that he knew exactly how he felt. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I.” Alistair coughed during the awkward pause, the space where conversation about what happened should have been, but a space all of them were reluctant to fill with what needed to be said.

Once it became unbearable, Alistair cleared his throat and reached into the pouch on his belt. He came out with a sealed letter. “There’s correspondence from the Chantry for you,” he said as he handed it to Malcolm. “Took all my strength not to open it. The seal is the Divine’s.”

“Probably declaring me an apostate again.” Malcolm cracked the seal.

“Don’t even joke about that,” said Líadan, which was quickly followed by jumping to her feet and dashing to the shelf Cáel had decided to sit down in front of. “Cáel! We don’t eat books! Especially not questionable books about... is that a miasma spell?” She frowned and placed the book on a higher shelf.

“You’d think they’d have learned their lesson,” Alistair said to Malcolm once he finished chuckling.

“The Chantry? That’ll be the day.” Malcolm unfolded the paper and read it. It was a dispensation, clearing the way for him to marry Líadan within the Chantry if they so wished. He would have suspected Grand Cleric Elthina, but it had only been a couple weeks since they’d seen her. It was too soon for her missive to have made its way to the Divine, much less the Divine to have decided, sent her letter to him, and him to get it here in Ferelden. If Alistair had asked, he would have told him first, or at least given away what it was before Malcolm could’ve opened it. Divines also did not just grant dispensations without being asked, which left Malcolm with no idea how they’d come by one at all.

“What is it?” asked Alistair.

Malcolm handed the paper to him. He could read for himself.

After reading it, Alistair turned it upside down and sideways to examine it.“Is this for real?”

“I don’t know. It could be a very clever forgery.”

“Feel free to let me in on the secret anytime,” said Líadan. She settled herself back in one of the chairs, Cáel successfully redirected to ripping apart a crumpled up piece of paper found under one of the shelves.

“It’s a dispensation,” said Malcolm. 

“I thought Grand Cleric Elthina said it would take months.”

“You both spoke with Grand Cleric Elthina?” Alistair looked incredulously between the two others. “Of Kirkwall?”

Malcolm shrugged. “She wanted to give Ava a blessing, and also wanted to give us a letter stating that a Dalish bonding is valid and recognized in the Free Marches. With our permission, she was going to send a letter to the Divine, asking for a dispensation for us, but like Líadan said, the Grand Cleric said it’d take months, most likely. So, I doubt this one is from her.”

“Did an official Chantry messenger give it to you?” Líadan asked.

“One of the Revered Mothers from the Denerim chantry gave it to me,” said Alistair. “Which means it’s probably official. I’d be suspect if Seeker Cassandra gave it to me, but she didn’t. I suppose…” He trailed off, and then shook his head. “No, why would she do that?”

“She, who?” asked Malcolm.

“Cassandra. I wonder if she asked to expedite it, and to try to make up for what happened with the templars and Seekers who accompanied them. She did say she owed Ferelden a debt. But if she did it, why wouldn’t she give it to me, herself?” He looked at Malcolm. “Or give it directly to you?”

“We could ask her, you know, when she’s yelling at me,” said Malcolm.

“Because that is a fantastic plan,” said Líadan. Though Malcolm knew she wasn’t being serious—in fact, she was being far from serious about it being in any way a decent plan—he had nothing else to go with, and no other Seeker contacts to try, so it was his only plan.

It turned out, as Malcolm discovered, that it was not a fantastic plan. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the question itself, or if it was his timing, but Cassandra did not react well. Her look toward him was immediately incredulous, and then shifted into the fiery sort of irritation one didn’t really want to see in a Seeker. Or anyone, really, when it came down to it.

“You interrupted me for that inquiry?”

So it _was_ the interruption part she’d taken offense to. Malcolm put it in the same list with cracks or questions about her family in terms of ways to get a rise out of her, and put himself in mortal danger. “I didn’t want to forget.”

“I doubt you would have forgotten it.”

It was a fair point, but he never _knew_ when he’d forget something. It just… happened. “Please just answer the question?”

“It was not me. Be happy with what you have. Do not question it, for you never know when your good fortune will turn.” 

“Is that a threat?” Alistair asked from where he stood near the door. Despite this encounter with Cassandra being far different from the one Malcolm had experienced before, just awakened from a head injury, the power was still in the hands of the Seekers. Malcolm and Alistair had done their best to alleviate the difference in power by holding the meeting in the private audience room, with chairs provided for everyone that were all on the same level, but it hadn’t worked. While Malcolm sat and Alistair stood, Cassandra paced wherever she liked, the power of the entire military might of the Chantry behind her every word and action.

“Do not be absurd,” Cassandra said to the King. “He has encountered fortune where he had none before. Were I him, I would run with it.” She turned to Malcolm. “Without the running. You have done enough as it is. You broke your agreement with me. All you needed to do was tell me you were leaving the city, where you were going, and when you would be returning. That is all, and yet you did not do it. Instead, you left in the dead of night, to what? Recruit Grey Wardens in Kirkwall? Do not think me a fool who would believe such a cover. Why did you go?”

“It was a Grey Warden mission.” He could look her straight in the eye when he said it, because it was the truth. Killing that demon after Líadan had been just as important to the Grey Wardens as it was to him. Hildur had made that clear. That had been the true mission, but the Chantry assuredly did not ever need to know about the demon. 

Cassandra stared at him in disbelief. “Unacceptable. Grey Warden missions do not require princes and their families to leave in the dead of night.”

“They do, actually,” said Malcolm. “This one did. What do you even care? You were quick enough to send your Seekers after us, with orders to kill instead of question. I’ve always found it hard to get answers from corpses, but I suppose Seekers have different techniques.”

“What are you talking about?”

It was his turn to give her a disbelieving stare. “We were attacked on the road.”

“Bandits are not unheard of, even in Orlais and Nevarra. I suspect Fereldans are just as familiar with the problem.”

He rolled his eyes. “Despite whatever you might have said to Knight-Commander Meredith in Kirkwall, you’d already had us attacked on the way there. They were templars who attacked us. They did nothing to hide their heraldry.”

“They were not mine.”

Malcolm studied her wordlessly, as if he could determine the veracity of her statement by doing so. Because he was well and truly tired of fighting with the Chantry, he wanted to believe her. Despite Marian’s grousing about her inaction, speaking with Grand Cleric Elthina had restored some of his faith in the religion of his childhood. Perhaps it hadn’t restored the trust—he wasn’t sure that could ever be restored—but the connection wasn’t entirely severed.

“They were not,” said Cassandra. “Despite you having broken your agreement, I held off sending my Seekers after you. Since your safety need be paramount, discretion was advised, and I exercised it. Had I known you would be so ungrateful—”

From the shadows came the voice of a woman who said, “That is enough, Seeker Cassandra.”

Cassandra obeyed the woman’s directive, even as Malcolm jumped from his chair, and Alistair straightened from leaning against the wall. It hadn’t sounded like Leliana, lacking the same lilt the bard had, yet until the woman stepped out of the shadows, Malcolm was convinced it would be Leliana.

She was not. She wore the Chantry robes of a Revered Mother, as well as a surprisingly peaceful expression. 

“Who are you?” asked Alistair. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“My name is Revered Mother Dorothea,” said the woman.

Alistair frowned. “Not ringing any bells.”

There might have been a hint of amusement in the brief quirk of her lips, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure. “I am not the type of person to ring bells, child.”

“Not with as quietly as you walk, you aren’t,” said Malcolm, his nervousness blocking off his ability to choose his words wisely. “I didn’t even know you were there.”

“I did not wish you to know until I needed to.”

Alistair stepped away from the wall and toward the supposed Revered Mother, which made Cassandra’s hand drift toward the hilt of her sword. If Alistair saw it, he didn’t indicate it. He addressed the priest, instead. “All right, really, who are you?”

She fixed him with a look of righteous exasperation. “As I said, I am Revered Mother Dorothea. I have chosen to be your benefactor. You do not wish me to be your enemy, so do not court such a fate with your paranoia.” She glanced between all three of the other people in the chamber. “We are done here. The threat within the templar order has been determined and mitigated with as best as possible. Your traitor has been routed from the ranks of your nobility. There is nothing else left for the Seekers to investigate for the time being.” She settled her gaze on Alistair. “Be sure that you keep it that way, King Alistair of Ferelden. The Chantry has a long memory, one that is slow to forgive and long to forget. A single misstep in the future could lead to an Exalted March, and neither of us wants that. Please see to it that you toe the line, at least up until you are certain your army could defeat any army the Chantry could set upon you.” She inclined her head toward Malcolm, and then Alistair. “May Andraste bless your steps as you walk into your futures.”

As they gave her bewildered looks, she strode from the room, softly closing the door behind her.

Cassandra made as if to leave, and then turned on her heel to face Malcolm. “One more thing, Theirin,” she said. “The Seekers, specifically myself, owe you and your family a debt. I cannot restore to you your wardog, or the trust you’ve lost in the Chantry, nor the harm or threats you faced when we arrived. I can, however, aid you, should you call upon me in the future. I will see this debt paid, should you allow it.”

The words were spoken with such utter conviction that Malcolm agreed. “All right.” He frowned. “If you hadn’t done me a favor already. I was sure it was you.”

She shook her head. “No. That was someone else who carried a different debt.” She nodded at him. “May the Maker watch over you and your family, Theirin. I fear you may need it.” Then she walked out.

“Was _that_ a threat?” Alistair asked once the door had closed.

“I don’t think so. I think it was more a warning from someone privy to more knowledge than us, and not wanting us to step afoul of it.” Except unless both his children never developed magic as they grew, he couldn’t see how they wouldn’t eventually anger the Chantry once more, because neither of them would ever be sent to a Circle. He, like Líadan, would die first before allowing it. What he didn’t see was how Ferelden could defy the Chantry like that. It wouldn’t matter as much if he were a minor lord, or even a teyrn, come to think of it. But as the King’s brother, as a recognized prince in his own right, if the Chantry knew he willingly held a mage child from the Circle, there would be repercussions. Grave ones. They had years to plan, to be sure, since it wasn’t until either child reached four years old that they really needed to keep an eye out for magic, but he also knew, from Cauthrien’s various reports, that the years of war within the country had been devastating to their martial ability. “How long do you think it would take for us to rebuild an army?” he asked out loud.

“A capable one?” Alistair let out a long sigh. “Cauthrien says years. The young men and women who were children during the Blight and civil war need time to grow up and train. Even still, she isn’t sure if she can build much of a standing army. City elves have been volunteering left and right, but they need training. There’s the younger sons and daughters of the nobility, as well as bastards, but they need discipline. She says within a year or so, we could have an army. But one capable of repelling the Chantry, should they bring us a true Exalted March? Years. Probably a decade. We lost many of our seasoned soldiers and men-at-arms with all the fighting we’ve done. What we didn’t lose at Ostagar, we lost in the Blight and the civil war. What we didn’t lose in one of those, we lost at Highever. We’re practically building from scratch, with a desperate hope and prayer that no one attacks us in the meantime.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Of course I have. Anora and I have had many discussions about this with Cauthrien and her officers, as well as many of the Landsmeet. The ones who lived through the Occupation are more than a bit scared at how little we have left to defend ourselves with. Personally, I’m scared that everything we worked so hard to save will be ripped away. In the end, we’ll just have to hope that none of our children turn out to be mages, or that if they do, it’ll be a decade from now, when we’ve the best chance to have built a good standing army that can withstand the full might of the Chantry.” He gave his brother a rueful smile. “Don’t look so surprised. My thoughts have gone in the same direction as yours, you know. With our lineage, having a mage child isn’t out of the question. With the lineage of your children, especially, we’ve a lot to think about, just in case.”

“I won’t send them to the Circle.”

Alistair’s eyes became more serious than they had before, when Malcolm had thought him deadly serious. “I know. That’s part of why I have to plan and strategize like I have been. What Eamon said to me… it wasn’t wrong. In fact, there was a lot more truth to it than I wanted to admit.”

Malcolm cocked his head to the side. “What did he say to you?”

“Not as much what he said, as it was what he asked. All he did was ask what I’d do, if my unborn child with Anora became a mage. He asked if I would send him or her to the Circle.”

“Would you?”

“In the end, yes.” 

Malcolm stood, ready to unleash a tirade on his brother, because he wouldn’t want to see a niece or nephew of his sent to the Chantry any more than he’d want to see a child of his own sent there.

Alistair held up a hand to forestall Malcolm’s outrage, even as his brother advanced on him. “I would have to, unless the Chantry didn’t exist, and we both know how unlikely that is. Not unless we can make a real stand that wouldn’t put the entire country at risk.”

He didn’t understand, which confused Malcolm because Alistair had seen the inside of Kinloch Hold during the Blight. He’d seen firsthand what the Chantry’s oversight of the Circles of Magi wrought. Malcolm couldn’t look at either of his children and _not_ vow to keep them from the Circle, and he had no idea how Alistair couldn’t do the same. “But we’re talking about your own child.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“To be honest, I don’t think you do. You’re talking about your own child. Giving them to the Circle means _giving them to the Circle_. Handing them the authority to do whatever they want to your own child, up to Tranquility or death. They could kill your child. Or they could take your child’s life, but leave them breathing. Either way, once you hand them over, there’s nothing you could do. Nothing. You couldn’t save them, Alistair. You couldn’t protect them. I’m not putting myself in that position, and you shouldn’t, either. Maybe you’ll change your mind once your child is born and you have to look them in the eye for the first time. It doesn’t matter if they’re your blood or you’ve adopted them, when you meet their eyes for the first time, it’s over. You can’t deny them your protection and your love. You can’t. But I can’t make you see that. You have to experience it.”

Malcolm left his brother standing in the audience room to think it over. While it wasn’t something that would become a problem for many years, and might never become a problem, with the threat it presented, the reality could never be far from their minds.

In their room at the Warden compound, Líadan noticed the look on his face and immediately questioned it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, yet.”

She crossed her arms, as if preparing for a fight to draw the dilemma out of him. However, he was easily willing to share the burden, since she would be going through the same struggle, if the future was as dire as they all imagined it would be. “Alistair really thinks that he’ll be able to give up his child to the Circle if he or she turns out to have magic.”

“I don’t think he’ll keep that opinion for long once he meets his child. Creators, I’d give my life to either Cáel or Ava if it meant keeping them out of that barbaric prison.”

“So would I. I just hope it doesn’t come to that. Alistair’s been trying to figure out the strategy, should either of them turn out a mage, and we refuse to send them to the Circle. I mean, he’s counting on us not.”

She rolled her eyes. “It isn’t like we haven’t told him several times that we wouldn’t. I won’t step foot in one, and neither will they. Not if I have it within my power to stop it.”

“That’s the thing—Alistair doesn’t think we’ll have the power to say no and back it up for another decade.”

“Either way, we’ve a few years to see where things are headed before anyone has to decide anything. Besides, it won’t matter much what I do. I can say no all I want, and it won’t reflect on the monarchy.”

Malcolm sat on the edge of the bed as he tried to figure out how that one worked, because it really didn’t. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m not a member of the royal family.”

He stared at her. She was still on about that? She couldn’t seriously still believe she wasn’t part of the family. “All right,” he said, trying to find some kind of middle ground, because Maker’s breath, there was no way under the Maker’s sun she wasn’t part of the family, “how about you’re a member of a family that _happens_ to be royal?”

“Semantics. It doesn’t change anything.”

Between his brother and his wife, he was reaching the limits of his frustration for people to willfully blind themselves to the truth. “Of course it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re my wife, that Alistair, Anora, and Fergus all think of you as a sister, that you’re the mother of my children, and, oh here’s another, I happen to love you. None of that has changed. Whether or not you want to admit you’re part of the royal family or not, you are.”

She was starting to look equally as irritated, and her arms remained crossed. Then she added pacing the length of the room to signs Malcolm took as ones of mounting annoyance with him. “Family, yes. Royal, no. I’m sure the Landsmeet in a few days will say the same. No matter what Varric calls me, or any of what you or anyone else might believe, I’m not a royal. It isn’t even that I’m a commoner who has to be raised to the nobility. I’m an elf. I’m a Dalish elf, and we have no place amongst human nobility.”

“Shianni is a bann, which is a place in _Fereldan_ nobility, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Líadan rounded on him. “Of course I noticed! I also noticed exactly how much work it took Alistair to get the Landsmeet to agree, and she’s a relatively minor noble. It isn’t _royalty_. I might walk amongst royalty all the time, but it isn’t my world, no matter how much you’d like it to be.”

For a reason he couldn’t name, he almost felt crushed at hearing it. “Do you… did you not want to go before the Landsmeet? To make sure they accept the validity of our marriage?”

She stared at him, her mouth slightly dropping open before she said, “You’re an idiot. Just because I’m realistic about who I am and just how much humans will accept me, and my relationship to you, doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what we have as validated as possible. Otherwise, I could be forced out, somehow. Away from you, away from Cáel—”

“I wouldn’t let that happen. Neither would Alistair or Anora, for that matter.”

“Still better to have as many legal proceedings necessary to block it, just in case.” Líadan moved to stand in front of him, and then cupped his cheeks in her hand. “I know you’re optimistic about this, but someone has to be grounded in reality. Just because I’m the one being grounded, doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep what we have.”

He drew her down to his level and kissed her. “I’ll be the greedy one. I want more.”

She sighed, even as she sat next to him. “One more thing: I don’t want to _be_ a princess.”

“Oh, well then. Why didn’t you say so? I take back my entire argument.”

“We’re not arguing? Good.” Then she drew him down to the bed and said quietly in his ear, “Let me show you the other benefits of having been healed early.”

Any further arguments left his thoughts entirely, his mind and body in agreement of more fun pursuits.

The Landsmeet that followed a fortnight later did not disappoint in bringing every argument to the forefront. The nobility was divided, as always, and immediately commenced with shouting their agreement or disagreement at each other after Alistair had presented the case to them. In presenting the case, he’d also waved about the dispensation from the Divine and the letter from Grand Cleric Elthina. Yet the documents had unsurprisingly little sway over a population still reeling from recent conflicts with the Chantry, and the approval of the Chantry lent less favors over their agreeableness than it once would have.

It was, Malcolm thought as he watched the altercation, going poorly. Teagan was on their side, as was Alfstanna. Fergus had been a given. Wulff and Sighard seemed to go back and forth. Cauthrien had told them of her approval long ago, and had not changed her mind. Shianni was as much a given as Fergus, and she made her opinion on the matter startlingly clear when she rounded on Ceorlic and let him have it.

“Changed my mind about Nuala’s scariest relative again,” Malcolm whispered to Líadan. “It’s back to Shianni.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know. You can tell Rhian, though.”

Anora sighed.

“What?” Malcolm said to her. “It’s how we deal with stress. You should try it, you know. Humor, more than once in a great, long sodding while.”

Anora sighed again. Malcolm was starting to form the opinion that late pregnancy had robbed Anora entirely of her sense of humor, because he knew for a fact that she used to have one. Maybe the baby stole it. His sense of self-preservation kept him from saying that revelation out loud.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with the match,” said Alfstanna. “Honestly, Gallagher, this shouldn’t be as divisive an issue it is. The Queen’s expecting an heir any day now, and Malcolm’s son is a fully human heir-presumptive in the meantime. For Maker’s sake, she fought for Ferelden in the Blight. She was literally up on the top of Fort Drakon with our King and his brother, fighting the Archdemon. If that hasn’t earned her the right to marry whomever she likes and get on with her life, I don’t know what does.”

“It would be fine if she were _human_ , Alfstanna, but she’s an elf. It simply isn’t done, elves marrying princes or princesses, because they don’t become princes or princesses,” said Wulff. Surprisingly, he kept speaking his view without rancor, which was mind-blowing to Malcolm, considering his position.

“Just like elves don’t become banns?” asked Shianni.

Alfstanna smirked. “She’s got you there.”

“Blast. I hate change.” Then Wulff rubbed his forehead. “Not saying that I hate you, Shianni, just… I haven’t gotten used to everything the darkspawn and the Blight changed and destroyed. I’m not saying it right.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Shianni.

“I think my brother lost enough at the beginning of the Blight, and even more when he was forced to become a Grey Warden,” said Fergus. “Líadan aside, I think he’s earned some happiness, too. So what if that means the woman he marries is an elf? Like you said, she fought the Archdemon with him. And I’m not sure about the rest of you, but she’s stuck by him, no matter what’s been said or done to her because she happens to be an elf. We’re Fereldans, and Fereldans value loyalty above all else. Who would we be to dismiss such loyalty? Orlesians?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Cauthrien.

“I think Gwaren produces a few too many single-minded outlooks,” said Sighard.

Cauthrien frowned at him. “Someone has to think of Ferelden’s future.”

“We are.” Sighard gestured toward the quarreling Landsmeet. “That’s exactly what we’re doing right now.”

“It isn’t that I don’t respect Warden Líadan,” Ceorlic said to Fergus, “but it still remains, as Gallagher said, that she is an elf. For her to be officially married to a member of the royal family simply isn’t done.”

Fergus raised an eyebrow at him. “And if she were human, despite her being a mage?”

“I would have no objections. I devoutly wish she were human, so that this union could be approved and we could move on.”

“I don’t,” said Malcolm, surprising himself when he spoke as loudly as he did. At the confused looks sent in his direction, he explained further, because he was tired of not saying it. “Líadan wouldn’t be Líadan if she were human. She wouldn’t be the same person, and I don’t wish to have her identity taken away from her any more than I’d wish to have my own removed.”

“Look, she can’t be made a royal,” said Ceorlic. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m not saying I don’t want you two to be happy. Maker’s ass, I’m not even trying to say you shouldn’t be married. As much as we might disagree with the Chantry lately, even the Divine gave you dispensation for that. I just do not think she should be made a royal, and her child by you cannot be allowed to inherit the throne.”

“Who says that either of those things has to come to pass?” Malcolm ignored the ‘I told you so’ look Líadan had shot him over not being included as a royal, and instead concentrated on the collectively more stubborn Landsmeet. “This is a Landsmeet; this is where we make the laws of the land. If there’s a solution to be found, it’s here amongst the minds of Ferelden.” Then he took a slight step backwards to indicate his willingness to let the Landsmeet proceed as they would.

“What? No ultimatum?” asked Teagan, who seemed almost amused.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “I could come up with one, if you wish.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Why?” asked Shianni.

Teagan shrugged. “Color me curious.”

Malcolm glanced down at his feet for a moment, truly allowing himself to think about what he’d do if the Landsmeet wouldn’t allow Líadan to share his life. He hadn’t quite given it much thought yet because he’d been optimistic about their chances at something workable. But listening to the arguments as he had already, and with the questioning he was getting, he supposed there was a chance things wouldn’t go their way, even if they had Meghan speak in their favor, and even though they’d had letters from a Grand Cleric and the Divine. If he admitted what he really wanted, it was to stay with his family, and with his family, remain in Ferelden. These were his people. This was his home. He had defended it from the Blight, and would do so again in an instant, and not just because he was a Grey Warden. He truly loved these infuriating, obstinate people. But he loved his family more, and it it came down to a choice between the two, Líadan, Cáel, and Ava would win every time.

“I could leave,” he said out loud. “Simply go elsewhere within the Grey Wardens, where none of this applies, where it won’t matter that the woman I love and the mother of my children—to whom I am lawfully married, mind you—happens to be an elf. The Wardens won’t care, not as long as we do our duty. So, there you go, Teagan. There’s my ultimatum. I would leave Ferelden.” It would be a huge mess, he knew. He would hate leaving his brothers, his sister-in-law, and his unborn niece or nephew. He’d also probably be committing some sort of treason by taking Cáel with him, but he’d be damned if he’d leave his son, especially when the entire point was keeping his family together.

“Bluff,” said Teagan. “You wouldn’t leave.”

Fergus studied Malcolm with a level look before saying, “I’m not certain it’s a bluff, Teagan.”

“He’s too loyal,” said Sighard.

“But to whom, exactly, is he loyal?” asked Alfstanna. “His wife and children, or the rest of his family? His immediate family or Ferelden?”

Teagan shook his head in disgust. “What kind of people would we be to force such a decision on one of our own? Not the sort of person I would like to be. Let’s make this work. Orlesians break up families, as they did during the Occupation. Fereldans should not even entertain the possibility, not when another way can be found.”

“I move that we discuss this without the petitioners present,” said Wulff. “There’s honesty, and then there’s brutal honesty, and if we’re going to get this worked out in a reasonable amount of time, it will require some brutal honesty that I don’t think is fair for them to need to hear.”

“Seconded,” said Ceorlic.

Malcolm glanced up toward where Fergus and Hildur stood, neither of them looking entirely comfortable with the idea of him and Líadan being asked to leave, but looking like they were going to keep quiet in order to choose their fights.

Behind him and Líadan, Malcolm could practically hear Alistair roll his eyes. 

“Fine,” the King said. “You two go wait in my study or the compound or something. I’ll let you know what everyone decides.”

A few of the nobles smiled at them as they walked out, and Malcolm assumed that meant they were on their side, though it was incredibly hard to tell at all. Meghan, who’d been sitting quietly near the wall behind Fergus, smiled at them as well. Malcolm took that a little more to heart, because Meghan’s smile was reassuring, and she was someone who was more of an authority on things like this, having been raised as an actual princess. Though, what Malcolm had found interesting about Meghan was that she wasn’t a jackass like her brother.

Too bad he hadn’t told Sebastian that when he’d had the chance.

Líadan headed right in the direction of the compound. “Would you really leave Ferelden?” she asked. 

They were in another hallway before he answered, now entirely sure of his course of action. “Yes.”

She stopped to stare up at him. “You’d leave your home?”

“It wouldn’t be home if you weren’t part of it.” Then he practically gagged at what he’d said. “Maker, that was _so_ horribly romantic. That was straight out of one of Wynne’s romance novels. I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry it came out that way, but it doesn’t change the truth of it. I’d rather not leave either you or Ferelden, but if the choice comes down to you or Ferelden, you win. Especially when Cáel and Ava are in the mix. Then it’s the three of you, hands down. I think Fergus recognized it.”

“I think so, too.” She resumed her walk towards the compound. “I don’t know if you’d actually have to leave, though. You could get Hildur to reassign you to Vigil’s Keep. Maybe she’d send you up to run that other outpost she’s been fixing up. Soldier’s Peak, I think she called it. Where she got that ancient mage from. You know, the one who might be older than my grandfather, which I didn’t think possible.”

“Well, I have to say, your grandfather aged a far sight better than Avernus did. I think that’ll mean good things for you, too. Hildur says that Avernus’ potion will allow us to live normal lifespans, given they aren’t cut short by enterprising darkspawn, enterprising rivals, or equally as enterprising bad luck.”

“I know. She told me the same. Not sure how you’ll look when you’re old, though. None of your predecessors seemed to die of old age.”

“Yeah, I imagine that’s the part where all the enterprising rivals and bad luck comes in.”

Once they reached the compound, they brought Cáel outside to a side garden to play. Chasing a toddler was always a good distraction, because keeping them from harming themselves required full attention.

“But it’s cold,” said Jurian, as they went outside. “Can’t be good for the lad.”

“He’s _Fereldan_ ,” said Malcolm. “Made for cold. Maker, you talk like you’re a Kirkwaller or something. You’re Fereldan, too. This isn’t cold. This is fine weather!”

After many minutes of having his ungloved hands out of his cloak in order to grab his son and tickle him multiple times, Malcolm changed his mind a little. It was somewhat cold. It had to be, since he could barely feel his fingers. Cáel was fine, his cheeks a healthy rosy red as he darted from leafless tree to leafless tree. Líadan rejoined them halfway into the game, with Ava asleep in her sling, kept warm underneath Líadan’s cloak. Malcolm was somewhat jealous, to be honest. Babies were _warm_. Toddlers were also warm, but they were squirmy, so the warmth wasn’t all that useful.

Almost an hour had gone past by the time someone found them. “Andraste’s frozen bottom, it’s cold out here!” they heard Alistair say. “Why couldn’t you two stay inside?”

“Kid wanted to run,” said Malcolm, as he snatched up said child before he could dart away again.

“Well, come inside, because Anora informed me that she wanted to be there when you found out, and that she wasn’t going to stay outside for the entire discussion.”

“You aren’t telling me if it’s good or bad,” Malcolm said to his brother.

“It’s unlike you, not to have any tells,” said Líadan. 

“Can I carry Cáel?” asked Alistair.

Malcolm gladly handed him over, because he knew how important it was for his son to spend time with his uncle, but it didn’t help him feel any better at hearing the request. His chest felt a little heavy as dread crept in with doubt, that maybe Alistair had asked to hold Cáel because he would be leaving soon, when Malcolm and Líadan would be forced to take both children and leave the country. He hadn’t truly thought the Landsmeet would vote that way, but maybe he’d been hoping for too much change. Maybe they hadn’t changed as much as he’d thought, or weren’t ready for such an official change. Maybe they weren’t the people he’d thought they were.

Inside seemed overly warm, in comparison to outside, and cloaks were thrown backward as they walked. Ava remained comfortably asleep, but Cáel had already resumed his customary wriggle to get out of adult arms. 

“Don’t let him go,” Líadan said to Alistair. “If you do, you’re chasing him.”

Alistair frowned briefly as he tried to keep a decent grip on his nephew. “I should’ve asked to hold the newborn. At least she’s cooperative. For now, anyway. Maker knows what she’ll be like as a teen, with you two for parents.”

“Are you going to tell us or not?” Malcolm asked.

Alistair ignored him. “Anora’s in the library.”

“If it weren’t treason, I’d kill you,” he said to his brother.

“Please, Your Highness, don’t threaten fratricide where we can hear you,” called out one of the guards who had accompanied Alistair and Anora.

“I wasn’t serious! Much. Not yet. Need to make sure his kid’s born before I become anywhere near serious, because if he dies now, I’m technically next in line for the throne, and there’s no way I want it.”

“Maker be praised. Long live the King,” said another guard, with no inflection or enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Alistair, did you know the Royal Guard is filled with comedians?” asked Líadan.

“I did, as a matter of fact. I asked Somerled to make sure to hire only funny people. Otherwise, it’d be too dreary.” He jerked his chin toward the open library doors. “There we go.”

As soon as they were inside, Anora smiled at them. “You don’t have to leave Ferelden,” she said.

“Thank the Maker,” said Malcolm. “Why Alistair couldn’t say so at the outset—”

“I thought she wanted to tell you,” said Alistair. “The terms aren’t the best, but I don’t think they’re the worst, either. The Landsmeet listened very closely to what Meghan had to say, especially when they asked her about what the Vaels would have done.”

“What are the terms?” asked Líadan. 

“First of all, known elf-blooded children born to members of the royal family will not be allowed to inherit the throne, nor will the spouse of the royal family member be allowed to become king or queen, or be given the title of prince or princess. They did decide that not having a title at all would be awkward, so the title of lord or lady will be granted to the spouse, but they re-iterated that he or she will never be in line for the throne.”

“Not so bad,” said Líadan. “I never wanted to be a princess in the first place, and it means I don’t have to worry about Ava ending up on the throne. I’m fine with that.”

“So am I,” said Malcolm. It was a relief, honestly, that he wouldn’t have be concerned about his daughter ending up the ruler of Ferelden. Cáel was still a concern, but as long as Alistair and Anora’s child was born safely, and remained healthy and did not become a mage, Cáel would be in the clear.

“Another condition the Landsmeet added was that once we’ve another generation of Theirins and the line is established better than it was before the Occupation and everything after,” said Alistair, “will be that any royal family member who marries or bonds with an elf is forfeiting their own place in the line of succession.”

“That’s not exactly progressive. In fact, in the future, it’ll become regressive.” Malcolm sighed. “Except that it means I get to stay in my home country and not leave, and raise my children with my wife, who will stay my wife, even in the eyes of the Landsmeet.”

“It gives us time,” said Anora.

Alistair nodded. “Exactly. We can do a lot with that. I mean, look at the Blight. We did all that in a year. We’ve got lots of years for this one. We’ll get it right.”


	76. Chapter 76

“Despair not, said She,  ****

For your betrayal was Maker-blessed, 

And returned me to His side.

I am forgiven.”

— _Canticle of Maferath, Dissonant Verse_

**Alistair**

****The news did not surprise him.

He had honestly expected to get this sort of message sooner. The surprise came in that he received the message through official channels: a scout report from Gherlen’s Pass sent to Orzammar, which had then sent a surface dwarf messenger to the nearest chantry. Eamon and Isolde Guerrin had been killed during their travel to Orlais. According to the message, tons of rocks had tumbled from one of the pass’s high cliffs, rendering it one of those terrible sorts of accidents that couldn’t have been prevented.

Alistair wasn’t fooled. It had been Leliana’s work, not random chance. Part of him did wonder if there was anything he could’ve done to stop it. The other part of him was relieved, for he’d never been entirely convinced that Eamon would have kept his word as the years went on. And yet, even though the man had been a thorn in his side, especially so as of late, he mourned his death. There had been something good in him, at one time, and so he mourned that loss. He mourned the loss of Teagan’s brother, of Connor and Rowan’s father. Teagan had gone to Kinloch Hold to break the news to Connor. Before that, the final messenger—a Chantry priest—had brought the news, along with Rowan, the only survivor.

When he relayed the news to Anora, he could visibly see her relief as tension left her shoulders. “It’s a relief, and probably an affront to the Maker that I should feel so, but it is.”

“I know,” said Alistair.

“I have been curious. What did he say to you when you spoke to him?”

He frowned. “He denied it, at first. Then he admitted it. Then he asked me questions.”

“Such as?”

Alistair hadn’t wanted to bring it up, to share with her the fears that had been plaguing him since before Eamon had asked about the Circle, and since Malcolm had posed the same question—what would he do if his child had magic? He believed the worry should be his to bear alone, since it was his side that had the magic, and none of Anora’s ancestors had ever indicated magic. If their child turned out to be a mage, it would be his fault, so he believed Anora shouldn’t have to take on the fear that blanketed everything. He shrugged. “You know, things.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Things, Alistair? What are you not telling me?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Is it that I do not want to know, or you do not want me to know?”

He made a face. “There you go with your distinctions again.”

“Tell me, please.”

Alistair sighed and slouched back in his chair where he sat behind his desk. “You shouldn’t have to hear it, because you shouldn’t have to worry about it, too.”

“Are you talking about our child having the possibility of becoming a mage?”

“Are you a mind reader?”

“No, it’s just an obvious concern, given your mother. What was it that Eamon asked you?”

As he attempted to put off having to answer, Alistair drew a hand over his face, and then looked at his wife through his fingers. “He wanted to know if I’d send my own child to the Circle.” He put his hand down, suddenly unable to bear being goofy. “I told him I would.”

“You don’t want to.”

Even though he knew it wasn’t a question, he answered. “No, not really. Not at all, actually. Never in a thousand ages would I truly wish to send any child there, but especially not my own.”

“We wouldn’t have a choice, Alistair.”

“Which is why I said yes. But if I had the choice, I wouldn’t. When I spoke with Malcolm, he said some things that made me think, and scared me even more when I did. Not only did he inadvertently ask me the same question as Eamon—and to be honest, I wanted to punch him when he did, but I held back because of love or something—he pointed out that if I give my child to the Circle, it’s like they aren’t my child anymore. They could do anything they want to him or her, up to killing them or making them Tranquil, and there isn’t anything we could do to stop it.” He dearly hoped he never had to face the choice, that the child he would have with Anora would not possess magic. What he dreaded was when one or both of his brother’s children showed magic. While Alistair could believe one of out two could escape the curse, he didn’t think his brother and Líadan would be lucky enough to have both children free.

“You do realize,” said Anora, as if she’d seen the direction of Alistair’s thoughts, “that when one or both of Malcolm and Líadan’s children turn out to be a mage, that they won’t hand them to the Circle?”

“I do. I know. And there’s no way I could ever change their minds. I guess they’ll do what Malcolm half-threatened at the Landsmeet: they’ll leave Ferelden and hole up with the Grey Wardens. There’s more than enough mages in the Wardens, so they won’t want for lack of teachers. Of course, if by that point the First Warden isn’t one to allow conflict with the Chantry, the Wardens might not be an option, either. Then I’m not sure what they’ll do. I won’t force them, not even at swordpoint. But unless Cauthrien manages to assemble and train a proper army far faster than she’s predicted, I don’t know what will happen.”

“We can strategize once we know, years from now. There isn’t anything that can be done about it at the moment, and the children will just have to be closely observed. Their children and ours. We cannot be lax about it. We must get to know our child as much as possible. None of this having them live in one city and us in another, or Maker forbid, having him or her living in a stable.”

Alistair shot his wife a look of amusement. “We both had pretty messed up childhoods, didn’t we?” He scratched behind his ear for a moment to give himself time to think. “I think we should raise our kid like the Couslands raised theirs. I mean, you know Fergus. He’s very level-headed and stable and not emotionally stunted like, well, we are.”

Despite the heaviness of the topics, Anora gave him a faint, but true smile. “I notice how you did not mention your own brother.”

“I have no idea if you think he’s a good example or not.” Sometimes, he thought his brother was, but then he remembered how he was during most of the Blight, and decided not.

She folded her hands together over her middle. “I will be honest: I do. He’s a very different man from Fergus, that much is certain, but how the Couslands fostered and taught him about family created a very strong foundation for all the trials he ended up encountering later. He did well enough, especially when you consider that he wasn’t even entirely out of his teens. Looking at him now, he’s done well with himself, for the most part.”

“So we’ll foster our kid with Fergus, then?”

“Alistair.”

He grinned. “Got you.” That game, he thought, would never get old.

It took her a week to get even, but she did. While his own child didn’t come into the world in the same ridiculous turmoil as its cousin, there was enough turmoil within Alistair while he waited, because Anora had sent him from the room. It was the jokes, she’d told him. She couldn’t take one more crack from him, and had requested he leave until their child was out. He’d objected at first, but one glare from Wynne had sent him hightailing it outside. 

Which left him with nothing to do, because it wasn’t like he was going to pace outside the room. He wanted to. He’d tried, but they’d heard him and his footsteps and he’d been requested to go elsewhere until he was needed, all because he made jokes when he was under stress. It wasn’t like his brother didn’t do the same thing, and _he_ hadn’t been kicked from the room when Líadan had Ava.

Had he? Alistair realized he wasn’t exactly sure. If Malcolm had been kicked out, he knew he’d have heard the tale immediately, but no one had said anything of the sort. Even though Alistair knew there’d been fighting with the qunari at the time, he’d assumed Malcolm had been on guard duty in the room itself, and letting others do the fighting.

Conveniently, he ran into his brother as he walked toward the Warden compound, because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

“Why aren’t you with Anora?” Malcolm asked without even saying hello. “I was coming down to see how things were going.”

“Got kicked out,” said Alistair. “Apparently, I’m not funny.”

Of course, that sent his brother into laughter, because brothers couldn’t be _nice_ , not _ever_. “Wynne even backed her up! Then they wouldn’t let me pace outside. All I did was make jokes. Little ones. Not even about Anora or the baby. Just… observations. Did you do the same?”

“Do the same, when?” 

“When Ava was born.”

Malcolm gave him a bewildered look. “I was fighting qunari at the time. I mean, I probably made jokes—I’m fairly certain there was a joke about Merrill and blood magic—but I wasn’t there in the room when Ava was born. It would’ve been too crowded, and there were qunari. Mostly, it was the qunari. Helped pass the time, though.” He glanced around them. “I think you’re pretty screwed, though, because there aren’t any qunari around.”

“Are you suggesting a fight?”

“No. Maybe. All right, a distraction that could be a fight, were there qunari. I suppose there’s Oghren, and we could rustle up Fergus. Rhian always wants to fight someone. Líadan’s been itching to get some knocks in since her balance is back to normal. Hildur and Sigrun would probably want in, too. Oh, it could be like a giant melee!”

“This is exactly what got me kicked out, you realize?”

“No fight, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A guard came running up behind him, his breathing heavy. “Your Majesty! You should, you’ve been requested to come back, ser.”

“Have I? Did the Queen have a change of heart?”

The guard, who must have been new, blinked in disbelief. “Um, no, ser. Senior Enchanter Wynne told me to get you. She said the baby’s nearly out, and that if you can keep quiet, they would like you there.”

Malcolm clapped Alistair on the back. “There! Off you go. I’ll go get Líadan and be up soon. Don’t miss it like I had to miss both of mine.”

While Alistair didn’t run, exactly, he did walk as fast as possible. Yet when he got to the room, even as fast as he’d moved, he’d nearly missed it. As he stepped into the inner chamber, he saw Wynne holding a very newly-born child, so new that it had yet to be cleaned, and he hadn’t taken three steps before the child started to cry. After hearing the drama surrounding his niece’s birth, Alistair was grateful the crying came so quickly, though he wasn’t sure he was grateful that it was so loud. He’d never heard Cáel or Ava cry this loudly. Clearly, this loudness was from the child’s mother’s side, taciturn nature of Loghain and Cauthrien aside. He’d just ignore that part, because it suited him.

It wasn’t like _he_ was going to admit to being the loud one.

“Congratulations, Your Majesties,” Wynne said with a warm smile. “You have a son.”

The boy was cleaned and given to Anora, who looked tired and dazed, yet Alistair couldn’t see her as anything other than beautiful. It was a cliche, he knew, because Wynne had once read a scene from one of her romance novels to him because he wouldn’t let her be, but it was true. As he shared an amazed look with Anora before they both looked at their son, Alistair realized that he didn’t love Anora a little bit. He loved her, full stop. And when he realized it, he couldn’t help the grin he gave her. He vaguely heard Wynne saying she would be stepping away for a moment to give them privacy as he moved toward his small family. 

His son, cuddled on Anora’s chest, looked less angry than he’d sounded, though the redness hadn’t gone from his skin. His face was swollen and puffy, and wrinkled where it wasn’t, looking every bit of an old man, but Alistair didn’t care. As he caressed the soft, downy hair on the top of his son’s head, Alistair wondered how he could ever let this child go, how he could ever sent him to the Circle, should he turn out to be a mage. The very idea frightened him.

Instead of voicing his fear, he kissed the top of Anora’s head and whispered that he loved her.

Before she could respond, Wynne and the midwives had returned, and the moment of privacy very much over. Already, a messenger had been sent to the chantry, and bells had started ringing to celebrate the birth of the prince. His brother and his wife weren’t far behind Wynne, thrilled to see their nephew. 

It wasn’t until much later that he, Anora, and their son were left alone again, the boy asleep in his cradle, and his two parents very much awake.

They hadn’t yet settled on a name, and the discussion was edging on an argument, and it had been over an hour. Alistair was honestly surprised that Anora hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Then again, he wasn’t surprised, because she truly could be that intractable.

“Dane. I want to name him Dane,” he said to her. She surely couldn’t have an objection to Dane. It was an awesome name.

Her eyebrow rose precipitously. “Absolutely not.”

“What’s wrong with Dane? It’s a strong name. And very Fereldan.” He’d have his very own epic already having his name and namesake in it, and it was the most Fereldan name Alistair could think of that wasn’t Calenhad, and there was no way he was going to name his son Calenhad. That was too pretentious, he decided.

“It sounds more like what small children name their first pet,” said Anora.

Alistair sighed. Of course she’d find an objection to the _best_ name. “All right, fine. How about Hafter?”

She crossed her arms. “Anything would be better than that, even Dane.”

For some reason, the greatness of the name aside, Alistair felt really attached to the idea of naming their son Dane. He’d reread more of the Saga of Dane some weeks back, and had more identified with Dane’s story than he’d ever thought. And he was Fereldan, _very_ Fereldan, which was what Alistair wanted to declare with his son, the new heir. A strong name for a strong, stable future for Ferelden. He just had to convince Anora, which was more of an uphill task than anyone, except perhaps her father, realized. 

Oh, wait, that was it. She needed to feel as strong a connection to the name that Alistair did, and now he knew exactly what that connection was. He looked over at his wife again. “Your father was the Hero of River Dane. That honor was never taken away from him.” It was true. Loghain’s heroism during the Occupation had never been undone. It’s what had eventually allowed Alistair to not hate the man. Instead of letting himself think of what had happened during the Blight, he made himself think of who the man had been when he’d been his father’s best friend. Maric had loved Loghain like a brother for a reason, and Loghain had saved Ferelden with his actions at River Dane.

“You—” Anora paused and stared at him. Her careful poise cracked, and her eyes betrayed her sadness at the loss of her father. Alistair looked away from a moment, unable to bear the hint of vulnerability he so rarely saw in her. When he turned back, he thought he saw her fingers dropping down from her face, as if she’d wiped away tears. She cleared her throat. “You would allow such a thing? For our son’s name to relate to his grandfather, whom you had executed as a traitor?”

“I didn’t hate him, Anora.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“All right, I did. For a while. But I don’t anymore. I’ve learned all the things he did before, in detail. I do read books, you know, and I do visit the palace’s library more than occasionally. Another thing I remember, very clearly, is how your father carried himself just before his death. For a man who wasn’t born a noble, he certainly acted like one in truth. And, as misguided as he was, he only wanted to save Ferelden. Ferelden was the only thing in his life that was stronger than whatever he felt for Maric, for Cailan, and perhaps even for you. His paranoia about Orlais returning and taking over the country got the best of him. I think he realized that, in the end. I wouldn’t consider naming our son after the man Loghain had been at Ostagar. We’d be naming him for the hero Loghain had been in his earlier days. We’d be naming him for the father he’d been to you. You clearly loved him, and I had something to do with him being taken from you. I’d like to give some of him back, in a way.”

A moment passed in silence, and Alistair began to worry that he’d offended her somehow. Unable to meet her incredulous gaze, he looked away, toward a window he belatedly realized was covered with a heavy drapery, because it was night and cold outside and the drapes kept the heat inside. Then he heard a distinct sniffle and snapped his head back around. 

Wonderful. He’d made _Anora_ cry. Anora, who’d been the picture of perfect composure when her father was sentenced to death. Holy Maker, he was going to the Void for sure.

She brushed at her face with the sleeves of her dressing gown, and seemed surprised to find the wetness of tears on the fabric. “We shall name him Dane,” she said, her voice at once quiet and firm.

This time, he raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if she were sure. He didn’t trust himself to speak, still certain that he’d put his foot in his mouth.

She smiled. Then she said, “Besides, I had thought you would insist on Duncan.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed, trying to hold it in as much as possible so he wouldn’t wake their son. “I loved the man like a father,” he finally managed to say, “but I really couldn’t see myself calling a little boy Duncan. It’s a name for a Grey Warden with an awesome beard, not a tiny little baby.”

“Then I am much relieved, because I was a prepared for a long, protracted fight over it.”

“And then I astonish you with being reasonable. Wonders never cease.”

“Your reason hasn’t astonished me for a long time, Alistair. Not after the fortitude and reason you showed in how you dealt with Eamon, and how you dealt with Leliana, as well. At times, I questioned your methods, but never your reason. Even how you have handled the tiny possibility of Leliana having had a child and not telling you, and then not being able to find her to gain closure, was admirable. After your ill-planned speech to me, I found that I did not question if your heart was in the right place, either. I believe mine might be in the same place as yours.”

It was his turn to stare at her, certain that he’d misheard. “What?”

He saw it—she almost rolled her eyes. “What I am saying is that I love you.”

Alistair was nearly _certain_ she’d left off a ‘you twit’ at the end of her statement, but he was fine with it. They were all right, and that was what mattered.

**Líadan**

The number of people who attended the ceremony in the Denerim chantry surprised her. The ceremony was supposed to have been very small. Mostly, it was done for Alistair, because she hadn’t been able to include her other brother-in-law in the previous ceremony, and she had made him a promise that he would be able to see a ceremony. They hadn’t announced the Chantry ceremony, since it was merely a formality, and yet the chantry itself was full.

Líadan couldn’t bear to look at the crowd, shaken by how _many_ people there were, and not having had time to prepare for them, for this large number of humans. “Did you announce it?” she whispered to Alistair, who’d been standing with Malcolm to serve as official witness.

“No, of course not. You’d kill me, and I happen to value my life, thank you.”

“Then how did they all know?”

“I bet Nuala told Shianni. And if any of the staff overheard, I bet they told everyone they knew, too,” said Malcolm. “They’ll keep Warden secrets, and royal secrets, but for the most part, every other secret is up for grabs.”

Alistair took a peek behind them. “Wow, that’s a lot of people.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Líadan told him.

He only grinned. “There’s a whole bunch of folks from the Alienage, so Malcolm has to be right about the Shianni part. Oh, there’s Fergus. I think he came with Meghan Vael. How adorable is that? And Alfstanna, and some other banns and arls, and there’s a whole lot of commoners I don’t think I’ve met, but they’re here. Maybe they got confused and thought this was going to be the afternoon service? I could ask.”

Líadan nearly threatened to kill him right then and there, in front of every single witness, but Malcolm drew her ire when he shook with silent laughter.

Maybe she wouldn’t go through with this Chantry ceremony, after all. 

Except then Mother Boann, the priest they’d asked to officiate, cleared her throat, gave every single one of them a disapproving glare, and started.

All in all, it wasn’t as bad as Líadan had thought it would be. She hadn’t been required to swear to Andraste or the Maker, nor had she been asked to repudiate the Creators. She likened it to the blessing that Grand Cleric Elthina had given Ava, and she was okay with that. 

The well-wishes on their way out astonished her. She’d expected vitriol, after seeing how many had shown up, and maybe some supporters. Instead, she didn’t think she heard anyone expressing anything less than happiness for them. It was strange to think that humans were capable of such, especially considering their royal family, but she couldn’t deny the truth as it was repeated to her over and over. They asked about Ava, asked it there would be more, some expressed wishes that Ava be made a princess, while others said that Líadan deserved a better title than the one the Landsmeet had given her.

To be honest, she hadn’t even wanted _that_ one, but Alistair had insisted, along with Anora, and she’d grudgingly went along with it. She had, however, written a not-so-kindly worded letter to one Varric Tethras in Kirkwall, informing him that she was not, nor would ever be, a princess. He’d yet to reply.

Though they’d informed Oghren, more than once, that a feast was not needed after the ceremony, and _certainly_ not any sort of party, he hadn’t listened. Kegs had been tapped—kegs of Highever ale, Líadan noticed, and glared at Fergus for his complicity—and food laid out, upon which the Wardens had already set themselves. Hildur had brought down nearly all the Wardens from Vigil’s Keep and Soldier’s Peak, and there were a lot.

On entering the compound and seeing all the Wardens, Alistair looked happier than Líadan had seen him in a long time. “This is like before the Blight,” he said quietly. “I half expect to see Duncan come around the corner and join in. I never thought it would be like this again.”

“Well, there you go,” said Malcolm. “Just like before.”

Alistair shook his head, his smile growing wider. “No. It’s better.” 

Líadan didn’t stay down at the feast for long, unable to resist the pull she felt to see Ava. While Cáel had been happy enough to run about the main hall, weaving between the legs of the adults, Ava had been asleep upstairs until Nuala had gone to feed her. Líadan had followed, after a little while, craving the close, quiet moments afforded her when she held her daughter as she stared at the world around her in increasingly longer lengths of time, before sleep claimed her once more.

Once she’d settled into the other chair in the nursery, Nuala smiled and handed the awake, yet full baby over before she went downstairs to enjoy the feast. Líadan stared down at her daughter, who stared back, equally as curious. It still troubled her, reconciling with herself at how attached she felt to her daughter, despite her being human. She couldn’t deny the attachment, not in the least. It was too strong. But the guilty sadness always hit her on seeing Ava’s more human features. She wasn’t as strongly human-looking as Cáel, but she wasn’t like Feynriel, either, even though Feynriel had less elven blood than Ava carried. Her ears, most noticeably, were quite round, without even a hint of pointedness.

The moment didn’t last long, and Ava soon answered the infant’s strong call to slumber. Líadan cuddled her sleeping daughter close, and her thoughts stretched toward the wish that they were all Dalish. Then her emotions snapped back with the immediate guilt of wishing to change her own child, even though she fought guilt over loving her daughter in the first place. She wasn’t sure if the constant conflict would ever ease, but she took solace in the few peaceful moments she did have.

Her peaceful moment was soon interrupted by her brother-in-law, who came into the room with his particular look he got when he had questions. Not just any questions, of course, but Alistair questions. 

“So,” said Alistair. He drew out the word, and then let it hang in the air as a question of its own.

Líadan frowned at him as she rose from her chair, hushed him with quick motions of her hands, and herded him out the door before his loud Theirin voice woke up Ava. It wasn’t until she’d gotten him into the empty library that she asked, “What?”

“Well, I came up to ask you about something Malcolm told me to ask you about, but then I saw that you looked pretty sad sitting there.” Alistair stood in front of one of the chairs, as if reluctant to sit until he’d made sure she was okay.

“It’s the Dalish thing, Alistair. It won’t be going away anytime soon, and it really isn’t anything you can fix. I do appreciate the thought, though.”

He nodded solemnly. “What about a hug? Do you want a hug?”

“Do you want to keep your arms attached to your body?”

“Hey, no need to get prickly. I give good hugs, you know. Anora told me.”

She stared at him. “Anora. Anora told you that?” Líadan could not picture the Queen of Ferelden being the type who enjoyed any sorts of hugs, even from Alistair. She also would not tell him that he _did_ give good hugs, because it would go straight to his head.

“In confidence. So, don’t break it, or she’ll break me.” He grinned at her and sat down, apparently happy enough with having chased away some of her sadness. “Anyway, Malcolm told me that something interesting happened to you when you were in the Fade.” He held up his hands. “I mean, aside from killing a couple or ten demons. You know, the whole Flemeth appearing thing.”

Líadan copied his idea and sat down, suddenly exhausted. “ _Asha’belannar_ saved me. I would’ve died without her help.”

“Why would she do that? She always has reasons. It wasn’t like she saved Malcolm and me from our doom at Ostagar out of the goodness of her heart.” He furrowed his brow further than before. “Not sure if she has an actual heart, though. It’s hard to tell, like it’s hard to tell what she is.”

She didn’t want to have this conversation, but it was one she didn’t want to have ever, so getting it over with seemed the better idea. Less dread, that way. “She helped because she has either seen something about Ava or has plans for her.”

“And totally out of curiosity, how do you know that?”

“Marethari told me. You know that thing, where Grey Wardens aren’t supposed to have children together? And none of us knew for certain how Ava even came about? And that we all just decided it had to be something to do with Sundermount?”

“Vaguely, yes.”

“It wasn’t, not entirely. I’d gone to meet with Keeper Marethari that evening, to convince her that she didn’t want me as her First—” She fell silent when she noticed Alistair doing a poor job of holding in giggles. “It isn’t funny.”

“Picturing you as a First or a Keeper is actually really funny.” He cleared his throat and schooled his expression to one mostly lacking in mirth. “But I’d like to keep my arms part of my person, so I’ll be good and listen. And not laugh. Because it’s not kingly. Or nice.”

“Anyway,” she said, and paused to fix a glare on him to be sure he’d keep quiet, “as is custom, Marethari gave me a mug of Dalish tea, which I drank. Only when we were visiting her again, just before Ava was born, did she tell me that she’d put something in the tea that _Asha’belannar_ had asked her to put in it. It was ‘something to give fate a push,’ she told Marethari. I don’t know what was in it, or the extent of what it did, but it’s been made clear to me that the intended outcome was Ava.”

Any hint of humor had entirely faded from Alistair’s now shocked expression as he sat back in the chair. “Maker. Do you think she wants Ava?”

“I don’t know. I’d think if she did, she’d have taken her by now. Maybe Ava’s role in the future is just something _Asha’belannar_ wants to see happen, like with why she saved you and Malcolm.” She shrugged. “You just can’t know with her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”

“I’m not sure what I am.” And she wasn’t. Before Alistair left, he gave her a hug. She accepted it this time, because she needed it, whether she said it out loud or not.

Later, when the strange day had all but gone, Malcolm tried to pry some of her thoughts out of her, but she didn’t have the energy to get into it. Sometimes, she wished she could choose to dispense with it all, because of days like this one. Days where everything was wonderful, yet nothing at all like she’d dreamed of as a child, and the incongruity turned things dark and draining.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Malcolm asked.

“Maybe later.” She did mean it. If the melancholy hadn’t passed by morning, and she’d regained some energy, she’d discuss it. She did find it was less draining to talk to Malcolm about it, at times.

He studied her with a long look. Then, as if he’d known the direction of her thoughts, he said, “If she turns out to have magic, it could be just as much from me as from you. So please don’t feel like you have to own all the guilt.” He gave her a half-smile. “We can share, or something. But we can talk about it some other time, when you’re somewhat ready. Which, now that I think about it, might be years from now, if we’re lucky.”

Despite the guilt she’d fought over it, she was grateful that she’d chosen to bond with this man. Human as he was, he understood her. “All right.”

Her dreams were different that night.

They were empty; they had no past, no present, no hopes or nightmares, just herself, walking the bare Beyond.

She hadn’t had long to wonder at the difference before she had a visitor. At first, she thought it would’ve been _Asha’belannar_ , and that she’d be able to get a straight answer about Ava. But the figure who stepped through the tear slashed through the fabric of the Beyond was young, and not nearly possessing of enough confidence to match _Asha’belannar’s_ walk.

“Feynriel?” asked Líadan, and then immediately looked for a demon.

He noticed, and gave her a rueful smile. “No demons this time, I promise.” Once she nodded at him, he went on. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk with you before I left, so I thought I’d try here. Without having touched the eluvian shard lately, it’s a lot harder to find you.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing?”

“I guess.” He shrugged. “Keeper Emrys thinks it is.”

She rolled her eyes. She’d almost been successful in making herself forget that Emrys had invited Feynriel—an elf-blooded human—to learn from him in the Dalish clan. “Then obviously it’s good.”

“He said you’d react like that if I told you.”

Líadan wasn’t thrilled at the barely restrained amusement in Feynriel’s eyes. “Of course he did.”

His smile started to border on a smirk. “You’re a lot like him.”

“How about you tell me why you wanted to find me before I forcibly make you take that back?”

“Well,” Feynriel said as he shuffled his feet, “it wasn’t just my idea—”

“If you tell me that this was Emrys’ idea, I will wake up right this instant.”

His eyes widened. “No! Not this. My mother’s. It was my mother’s idea. She mentioned a few weeks ago that if I ever got the chance, that talking to you about what it’s like for an elf-blooded human child of a Dalish woman might help you with your daughter.”

“In what way?” Líadan refused to get go of her wariness, and it wasn’t just because they were in the Beyond.

“I know about the guilt.”

He said it so easily that Líadan almost thought he hadn’t said it at all. “What?”

“I know—”

She waved him off. “How?” She’d hoped to have control of it by the time Ava was old enough to understand it and keep the memories of it, that Ava wouldn’t have to know the guilt associated with her very existence, because it was a horrible thing to do to any child, much less your own.

“No matter how much you try to hide it, once your child learns about the Dalish, she’ll figure it out, like I did. But I wanted to tell you that it doesn’t matter.”

Líadan raised an eyebrow. “How can that not matter? To me, it matters a lot. It isn’t something I want her to know or feel.”

“She won’t feel it. Not if you’re the person my mother says you are. She’ll know you’ll feel guilty, regarding the Dalish and your child not being of the People, but she won’t feel less than a person, and she’ll never doubt that you love her. That’s what I knew from my mother, and your daughter will know the same. And I…” He let out a long breath. “I thought you should know. Your dreams were dark for a long time, because of the demon. Now that it’s gone, you’ve a chance for some nice ones that stand a chance of happening in your life, when you wake up.”

“How do I know you’re not a demon?”

“My guess is a demon would’ve pretended to be Keeper Emrys, since a pardon from one of the People would hold more weight than the pardon from an elf-blooded human.”

He had a point. “That much is true.”

Feynriel smiled. “Right, so no more guilt, and let yourself dream.”

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Líadan felt content when she woke up.

**Morrigan**

****Her son’s fortitude surprised her. As Cianán ran into the library in Arlathan, the child stumbled, as toddlers often did. There were no tears, only a quick glance back in his mother’s direction to reassure himself before he was on his way again. Morrigan watched, approving of his determination. There was no point in coddling, not with the future ahead of him. Though, she was glad to be free of the guilt she had assumed would be associated with not coddling her son, for she did not like to see him hurt. However, her son was an intrepid soul, and bumps and bruises did not deter him from whatever task he’d set his mind to. She approved, and her heart felt less heavy.

She caught up to him quickly, their morning walk to the library a familiar one they’d taken nearly every day since he’d taken his first steps. Her son had run to the back of the room, where he often looked at the eluvian, searching for his reflection, and upon finding it, being highly entertained by its appearance. This morning was different.

Morrigan halted, her hand resting on the wooden frame of the doorway, as her son had halted just inside the doorway to stare at the back of the room. The remaining glass of the eluvian rested not in the frame, but at the feet of Dirthamen and Falon’Din. Morrigan’s hand shook as she placed it on her son’s head either to steady him or herself. Perhaps both.

“Stay here,” she told her son. Whether it was because he understood the gravity of the situation or because he’d simply chosen to obey for once, Cianán did as he was told, and remained next to the doorway.

Morrigan strode quickly to the eluvian—what was left of it—to truly assess the damage. She forced back the threat of tears at her helplessness if it were fully shattered. There had to be a way out of this trap, she merely had to find it. She went to her knees and searched among the pieces of glass, but found no hope resting there.

“Ma,” said Cianán. “Mama.” 

While Morrigan liked to think her son was saying her name, she also knew he merely liked to repeat whatever syllables he could. However, it would not do to ignore him, as it would not encourage further development if she did not engage him. Thus, she turned to face him. “What is it?” she asked, not unkindly.

He pointed behind her.

Morrigan turned back around and looked up from the devastation of her hopes. One last shard clung stubbornly to the eluvian’s frame. It was just a piece, a small piece, but it was all she needed.

**Flemeth**

She watched.

She watched as she took another trip to the Deep Roads, as Marian Hawke and her party stumbled into a primeval thaig and its red lyrium. She watched as the Architect realized she had sent him on a wild goose chase, and then heard the call of one of his ancient magister brothers, and set to setting him free. She watched as the mourning mother she had healed confronted her grief and took control of her fate. She watched as the human Nicanor met with another human who went by the name of Lambert, and they both became Seekers together. Their training done, Flemeth watched as Lambert returned to Orlais, and Nicanor finally returned to his home of Tevinter.

She watched, sadly, as his wife and children rejected him outright. Then she watched as he fully dedicated himself to his vocation of a Seeker of the Chantry. She watched as he prepared, as he and Lambert had planned. They would wait, only acting when they decided it was time.

She watched as her mortal grandson took his first steps. She watched as the child to whom she’d given fate a push came into the mortal realm. She watched as the child and her family safely returned to their homes. She watched as an old friend took in the first Dreamer who, after long Ages of disappointment, gave them hope. She watched as the Chantry shook from the inside, the tremors only just beginning.

Flemeth watched them all come together—multiple tendrils of flame stretching for the tinderbox that had become the Maker’s creation. When they combined, they would light an inferno to cover all of Thedas.

In the end, the firestorm would leave only ashes of the world that lived before.

END


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